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POLITE FARCES 



BY ARNOLD BENNETT 



Novels 

THE OLD WIVES' TALE 

HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND 

THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS 

THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA 

BURIED ALIVE 

A GREAT MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 

A MAN FROM THE NORTH 

ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS 

THE GLIMPSE 

Pocket Philosophies 

HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A DAY 
THE HUMAN MACHINE 
LITERARY TASTE 
MENTAL EFFICIENCY 

Miscellaneous 

CUPID AND COMMONSENSE: A Play 
WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS: A Plaj 
POLITE FARCES: A Play 
THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR 
THE FEAST OF ST. FRIEND 



GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK 



POLITE FARCES 

FOR THE DRAWING-ROOM 



BY 



ARNOLD BENNETT 

Author of "The Old Wives' Tale," 
How to Live on Twenty-four Hours a Day," etc. 



GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



:- ; ^ 



Gift 
H. L, Menckeu 

tSAW 1 8 1929 



PR<oOo3 



TO 

F. C. B. 

MY BEOTHER AND COLLEAGUE 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Stepmother. {Farce in One Act) o , , 5 
A Good Woman (Farce in One Act) . . . . 39 
A Question of Sex {Farce in One Act) ... 69 



NOTE 

The three farces comprising the present book 
have been written for drawing-room performance. 
Dumas pere, the fatlier of modern drama, once 
said that all he needed was " four trestles, four 
boards, two actors, and a passion." For myself, I 
have dispensed with the trestles, the boards, and 
the passion, since none of these things is suitable 
for a drawing-room. The only apparatus neces- 
sary to the presentation of the pieces is ordinary 
costume, ordinary furniture, and a single door 
for entrance and exit. 

A. B. 



THE STEPMOTHER 
FARCE IN ONE ACT 



CHARACTERS 

Cora Prout, a Popular Novelist and a Widow, 30. 

Adrian Prout, her Stepson, 20. 

Thomas Gardner, a Doctor, 35. 

Christine Feversham, Mrs. Prout's Secretary, 20. 



THE STEPMOTHER 

Scene. — Mrs, Proufs study: luxuriously fur- 
nished; large table in centrey upon which are a 
new novel, press-cuttings, and the usual ap- 
paratus of literary composition. Christine is 
seated at the large table, ready for work, and 
awaiting the advent of Mrs, Prout, To pass 
the time she picks up the novel, the leaves of 
which are not cut, and glances at a page here 
and there. Enter Mrs, Front, hurried and 
preoccupied; the famous novelist is attired in 
a plain morning gown, which in the perfection 
of its cut displays the beauty of her figure. 
She nods absently to Christine, and sits down 
m an armchair away from the table, 

Christine. Good morning, Mrs. Prout. I'm 
afraid you are still sleeping badly. 

Mrs. Prout. Do I look it, girl? 

Christine. You don't specially look it, Mrs. 
Prout. But I observe. You are my third novel- 
ist, and they have all taught me to observe. Be- 
fore I took up novelists I was with a Member of 
Parliament, and he never observed anything ex- 
cept five-line whips. 

Mrs. Prout. Really ! Five-line whips ! Oblige 
5 



6 THE STEPMOTHER 

me by putting that down in Notebook No. S. 
There will be an M.P. in that wretched thirty- 
thousand word thing I've promised for the Christ- 
mas number of the New York Surpriser and it 
might be useful. I might even make an epigram 
out of it. 

Christine. Yes, Mrs. Prout Iwritesl. 

Mrs. Prout. And what are your observations 
about me? 

Christine [while writi/ngi . Well, this is twice in 
three weeks that you've been here five minutes late 
in the morning. 

Mrs. Prout. Is that all.? You don't think my 
stuff's falling off.? 

Christine. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout ! I know it's not 
falling off. I was just going to tell you. The 
butler's been in, and wished me to inform you that 
he begged to give notice [looJcing up^. It seems 
that last night you ordered him to cut the leaves 
of our new novel [patting hook maternally']. He 
said he just looked into it, and he thinks it's dis- 
graceful to ask a respectable butler to cut the 
leaves of such a book. So he begs to give warn- 
ing. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout, your stuff isn't fall- 
ing off. 

Mrs. Prout [grimlyl. What did you say to 
him, girl? 

Christine. First I looked at him, and then I said, 
" Brown, you will probably be able to get a place 
on the reviewing staff of The Methodist Recorder," 



THE STEPMOTHER 7 

Mrs, Prout. Christine, one day, I really be- 
lieve, you will come to employ a secretary of your 
own. 

Christine, I hope so, iNIrs. Prout. But I in- 
tend to keep off the morbid introspection line. 
You do that so awfully well. I think I shall go 
in for smart dialogue, with marquises and country 
houses, and a touch of old-fashioned human nature 
at the bottom. It appears to me that's what's 
coming along very shortly. . . . Shall we be- 
gin, Mrs. Prout? 

Mrs, Prout \_disinclined^. Yes, I suppose so 
\_clearing her throat'\. By the way, anything spe- 
cial in the press-cuttings .^^ 

Christine, Nothing very special [fingering the 
pile of press-cuttings'^. The Morning Call says, 
" genius in every line." 

Mrs, Prout \hlase']. HumT 

Christine, The Daily Reporter: " Cora Prout 
may be talented — we should hesitate to deny it — 
but she is one of several of our leading novelists 
who should send themselves to a Board School in 
order to learn grammar." 

Mrs. Prout. Grammar again ! They must keep 
a grammar in the office! Personally I think it's 
frightfully bad form to talk about grammar to a 
lady. But they never had any taste at the Re- 
porter. Don't read me any more. Let us com- 
mence work. 

Christine, Which will you do, Mrs. Prout.? 



8 THE STEPMOTHER 

[consulting a diary of engagements.'] There's the 
short story for the Illustrated Monthly, six thou- 
sand, promised for next Saturday. There's the 
article on " Women's Diversions " for the British 
Review — they wrote for that yesterday. There's 
the serial that begins in the Sunday Daily Sentinel 
in September — you've only done half the first in- 
stalment of that. And of course there's Heart 
Ache, 

Mrs, Prout. I think I'll go on with Heart Ache, 
I feel it coming. I'll do the short story for the 
Illustrated to-morrow. Where had I got to.? 

Christine [choosing the correct notehooTcy 
reads]. "The inanimate form of the patient lay 
like marble on the marble slab of the operating- 
table. ' The sponge, Nurse,' said the doctor, 
' where is it ? ' " That's where you'd got to. 

Mrs, Frout, Yes. I remember. New line. 
" Isabel gazed at him imperturbably." New line. 
Quote-marks. " ' I fear. Doctor,' she remarked, 
' that in a moment of forgetfulness you have sewn 
it up in our poor patient.' " New line. Quote- 
marks. " * Damn ! ' said the doctor, ' so I have.' " 
Rather good, that, Christine, eh? [Christine 
writes in shorthand.] 

Christine, Oh, Mrs. Prout, I think it's beauti- 
ful. So staccato and crisp. By the way, I forgot 
to tell you that there's a leader in the Daily Snail 
on that frightful anonymous attack in the Forum 
against your medical accuracy [looking at Mrs, 



THE STEPMOTHER 9 

Prout, who is silent, but shows signs of agitation'\. 
You remember — " Medicine in Fiction." The 
Siiail backs up the Forum for all it's worth. 
. . . Mrs. Prout, you are ill. I was sure you 
were. What can I get for you ? 

Mrs. Prout [weakly wiping her eyes'\. Non- 
sense, Christine. I am a little unstrung, that is 
all. I want nothing. 

Christine, Your imagination is too much for 
you. 

Mrs, Prout \meekly'\. Perhaps so. 

Christine [firmly^. But it isn't all due to an 
abnormal imagination. You've never been quite 
cheerful since you turned Mr. Adrian out. 

Mrs. Prout. You forget yourself, Christine. 

Christine. I forget nothing, Mrs. Prout, my- 
self least of all. Mr. Adrian is your dead hus- 
band's son, and you turned him out of your house, 
and now you're sorry. 

Mrs. Prout. Christine, you know perfectly well 
that I — er — requested him to go because he 
would insist on making love to you, which inter- 
fered with our work. Besides, it was not quite nice 
for a man to make love to the secretary of his step- 
mother. I wonder you are indelicate enough to 
refer to the matter. You should never have per- 
mitted his advances. 

Christine, I didn't permit them. I wasn't 
asked to. I tolerated them. I hadn't been secre- 
tary to a lady-novelist with a stepson before, and I 



10 THE STEPMOTHER 

wasn't quite sure what was included in the duties. 
I always like to give satisfaction. 

Mrs, Prout. You do give satisfaction. Let 
that end the discussion. 

Christine [pouting; turning to her notebook; 
reads} . " ' Damn ! ' said the doctor, ' so I have ' " 
[pause~\, "'Damn!' said the doctor, * so I 
have ' " [pausel. 

Mrs, Prout. Christine, did you find out who 
was the author of that article on " Medicine in 
Fiction".? 

Christine, Is that what's bothering you, Mrs. 
Prout? Of course it was a nasty attack, but it is 
very unlike you to trouble about critics. 

Mrs. Prout. It has hurt me more than I can 
say. That was why I asked you to make a few 
discreet inquiries. 

Christine. I did ask at my club. 

Mrs. Prout. And what did they think there? 

Christine. They laughed at me, and said every 
one knew you had written it yourself just to keep 
the silly season alive, July being a sickly month 
for reputations. 

Mrs. Prout. What did you say to that? 

Christine. I should prefer not to repeat it. 

Mrs. Prout. Christine, I insist. Your modesty 
is becoming a disease. 

Christine. I said they were fools 

Mrs. Prout. A little abrupt, perhaps, but ef- 
fective. 



THE STEPMOTHER 11 

Christine, Not to see that the grammar was 
different from ours. 

Mrs. Prout. Oh! that was what you said, 
was it? 

Christine, It was, and it settled them. 

Mrs. Prout ^assuming a confidential air'\. 
Christine, I beheve I know who wrote that ar- 
ticle. 

Christine. Who ? 

Mrs. Prout. Dr. Gardner \hursts into tears'\, 

Christine [soothing her}. But he lives on the 
floor below, in the very flat underneath this. 

Mrs, Prout [choking hack her sobs']. Yes. It 
is too dreadful. 

Christine, But he comes here nearly every even- 
ing. 

Mrs, Prout [sharplyl. Who told you that? 

Christine. Now, ]\Irs. Prout, let me implore you 
to be calm. The butler told me. I didn't ask 
him, and as I cannot be expected to foretell what 
my employer's butler will say before he opens his 
mouth, I am not to blame [compresses her lips]. 
Shall we continue? 

Mrs. Prout, Christine, do you think it was Dr. 
Gardner? I would give worlds to know. 

Christine [coldly analytic]. Do you mean that 
you would give worlds to know that it was Dr. 
Gardner, or that it wasn't Dr. Gardner ? Or would 
give worlds merely to know the author's name — no 
matter who he might be? 



12 THE STEPMOTHER 

Mrs, Prout \_sighing'\. You are dreadfully un- 
sympathetic this morning. 

Christine, I am placid, nothing else. Please 
recollect that when you engaged me you asked if 
you might rely on me to be placid, as your pre- 
vious secretary, when you dictated the pathetic 
chapters, had wept so freely into her notebook that 
she couldn't transcribe her stuff, besides perma- 
nently injuring her eyesight. Since you ask my 
opinion as to Dr. Gardner being the author of this 
attack on you, I say that he isn't. Apart from the 
facts that he lives on the floor below, and that he 
is, so the butler says, a constant visitor in the even- 
ings, there is the additional fact — a fact which I 
have several times observed for myself without the 
assistance of the butler — that he likes you. 

Mrs, Prout. You have noticed that. It is true. 
But the question is: Does he like me sufficiently 
not to attack my work in the public press? That 
is the point. The writer of that cruel article be- 
gins by saying that he has no personal animus, and 
that he is actuated solely by an enthusiasm for the 
cause of medicine and the medical profession. 

Christine. You mean to infer, Mrs. Prout, that 
the author of the article might, as a man, like you, 
while as a doctor he despised you? 

Mrs. Prout [whimpering again]. That is my 
suspicion. 

Christine. But Dr. Gardner does more than like 
you. He adores you. 



THE STEPMOTHER 13 

Mrs, Prout, He adores my talent, my genius, 
my fame, my wealth ; but does he adore me? I am 
not an ordinary woman, and it is no use pretend- 
ing that I am. I must think of these things. 

Christine. Neither is Dr. Gardner an ordinary 
doctor. His researches into toxicology 

Mrs. Front. His researches are nothing to me. 
I wish he wasn't a doctor at all. 

Christine, Even doctors have their place in the 
world, Mrs. Prout. 

Mrs. Prout, They should not meddle with fic- 
tion, poking their noses 

Christine, But if fiction meddles with them? 
, , , You know fiction is really very meddle- 
some. It pokes its nose with great industry. 

Mrs, Prout [pullmg herself together^, Chris- 
tine, you have never understood me. Let us con- 
tinue. 

Christine [mith an offended air, turning once 
more to her notebook'], " ' Damn! ' said the doc- 
tor, ' so I have.' " 

Mrs. Prout [coughing'] . New line. " A smile 
flashed across the lips of Isabel as she took up a 

glittering knife " [gives a great sob]. Oh, 

Christine ! I'm sure Dr. Gardner wTote it. 

Christine, Very well, madam. He wrote it. 
We have at last settled something. [Mrs. Prout 
buries her face in her hands, Christine looks up, 
and after an in^tanfs pause springs toward her.] 
You poor dear I You are perfectly hysterical this 



14 THE STEPMOTHER 

morning. You must go and lie down for a little. 
A horizontal posture is what you need. 

Mrs. Prout, Perhaps you are right. I will 
leave you for an hour [totters to her feet^. Take 
down this note for Dr. Gardner. He may call this 
morning. In fact, I rather think he will. " The 
answer to the question is ' No ' " — capital N, 

Christine, Shall I sign it.? 

Mrs. Prout. Yes ; sign it " C. P." And if he 
comes, give it him yourself, and say that I can see 
no one. And, Christine, would you mind [crying 
gently againl seeing the b-b-butler, and try to rea- 
son him into a sensible attitude towards my n-n-nov- 
els. In my present state of health I couldn't stand 
any change. And he is so admirable at table. 

Christine, Shall I offer some compromise in our 
next novel .f^ I might inquire what is the irreducible 
minimum of his demands. 

Mrs. Pro7it [faintly^. Anything, anything, if 
he will stay. 

Christine [following Mrs. Prout to the door, and 
touching her shoulder caressingly']. Try to sleep. 
[Eicit Mrs, Prout. Christine whistles in a low 
tone as she returns meditatively to her seat.~\ 

Christine [looking at notebook'], " Isabel took 
up a glittering knife," did she.^* " The answer to 
the question is ' No,' " with a capital N, " C. P." 
sounds like Carter Paterson. Now, as I have noth- 
ing to do, I think I will devote the morning to an 
article on " Hysteria in Lady Novelists." Um ! 



THE STEPMOTHER 15 

Ah ! " The answer to the question is ' No ' " — 
capital N. What question? Can it be that the 
lily-white hand of the author of Heart Ache 
has . . . [ArwocA:]. Come In. [^Enter Dr. 
Gardner,'] 

Gardner. Oh, good morning, Miss Feversham. 

Christine. Good morning, Dr. Gardner. You 
seem surprised to see me here. Yet I am to be 
found in this chair daily at this hour. 

Gardner. Not at all, not at all. I assure you 
I fully expected to find both you and the chair. I 
also expected to find Mrs. Prout. 

Christina. Are you capable of Interrupting our 
literary labours.? We do not receive callers so 
early. Dr. Gardner. Which reminds that I have 
several times remarked that this study ought not 
to have a door opening into the corridor. 

Gardner. As for that, may I venture to offer 
the excuse that I had an appointment with Mrs. 
Prout.? 

Christine. At what hour? She never makes 
appointments before noon. 

Gardner. I believe she did say twelve o'clock. 

Christine [looking at her match']. And it is 
now twenty-five minutes to ten. Punctuality is a 
virtue. You may be said to have raised it to the 
dignity of a fine art. 

Gardner. I will wait [sits dozen]. I trust I 
do not interrupt? 

Christine. Yes, Doctor, I regret to say that 



16 THE STEPMOTHER 

you do. I was about to commence the composition 
of an article. 

Gardner. Upon what? 

Christ'me, Upon " Hysteria in Lady Novelists." 
It is my specialty. 

Gardner, Surely lady novelists are not hyster- 
ical ? 

Christine. The increase of hysteria among that 
class of persons is one of the saddest features of 
the age. 

Gardner, Dear me! [enthusiastic ally'\. But I 
can tell you the name of one lady novelist who isn't 
hysterical — and that, perhaps, the greatest name 
of all — Mrs. Prout. 

Christine. Of course not, of course not, Doc- 
tor. Nevertheless, Mrs. Prout is somewhat indis- 
posed this morning. 

Gardner. Cora — ill ! What is it ? Nothing 
serious ? 

Christine. Rest assured. The merest slight in- 
disposition. Just sufficient to delay us an hour or 
two with our work. Nothing more. Nerves, you 
know. The imagination of a great artist. Dr. 
Gardner, is often too active, too stressful, for the 
frail physical organism. 

Gardner. Ah ! You regard Mrs. Prout as a 
great artist? 

Christine. Doctor — even to ask such a ques- 
tion . . .! Do not you? 



THE STEPMOTHER 17 

Gardner. I? To me she is unique. I say, 
Miss Feversham, were you ever in love? 

Christine. In love? I have had preferences. 

Gardner. Among men? 

Christine. No ; among boys. Recollect I am 
only twenty, though singularly precocious in 
shrewdness and calm judgment. 

Gardner. Twenty? You amaze me. Miss 
Feversham. I have often been struck by your 
common sense and knowledge of the world. They 
would do credit to a woman of fifty. 

Christine. I am glad to notice that you do not 
stoop to offer me vulgar compliments about my 
face. 

Gardner. I am incapable of such conduct. I 
esteem your mental qualities too highly. And so 
you have had your preferences among boys? 

Christine. Yes, I like to catch them from 
eighteen to twenty. They are so sweet and fresh 
then, like new milk. The employe of the Express 
Dairy Company who leaves me my half-pint at my 
lodgings each morning is a perfectly lovely dear. 
I adore him. 

Gardner. He is one of your preferences, 
then? 

Christine. A preference among milkmen, of 
whom, as I change my lodgings frequently, I have 
known many. Then there is the postman — not a 
day more than eighteen, I am sure, though that is 



18 THE STEPMOTHER 

contrary to the regulations of St. Martln's-le- 
Grand. Dr. Gardner, you should see my postman. 
When he brings them I can receive even rejected 
articles with equanimity. 

Gardner, I should be charmed to see him. But 
tell me, Miss Feversham, have you had no serious 
preferences.'* 

Christine. You seem interested in this question 
of preferences. 

Gardner, I am. 

Christine, Doctor, I will open my heart to you. 
It is conceivable you may be of use to me. You 
are on friendly terms with Adrian, and doubtless 
you know the history of his exit from this house. 
[Gardner nods, with a smile. ~\ Doctor, he and I 
are passionately attached to each other. Our ages 
are precisely alike. It is a beautiful idjdl, or 
rather it would be, if dear Mrs. Prout did not try 
to transform it into a tragedy. She has not only 
turned the darling boy out, but she has absolutely 
forbidden him the house. 

Gardner, Doubtless she had her reasons. 

Christine, Oh, I'm sure she had. Only, you 
see, her reasons aren't ours. Of course we could 
marry at once if we chose. I could easily keep 
Adrian. I do not, however, wish to inconvenience 
dear Mrs. Prout. It is a mistake to quarrel with 
the rich relations of one's future husband. But I 
was thinking that perhaps you. Doctor, might 
persuade dear Mrs. Prout that my marriage to 



THE STEPMOTHER 19 

Adrian need not necessarily interfere with the per- 
formance of my duties as her secretary. 

Gardner. Anything that I can do, Miss Fever- 
sham, you may rely on me doing. 

Christ ine. You are a dear. 

Gardner. But why should you imagine that I 
have any influence with Mrs. Prout? 

Christine. I do not imagine ; I know. It is my 
unerring insight over again, my faultless observa- 
tion. Doctor, you did not begin to question me 
about love because you were interested in my love 
affairs, but because you were interested in your 
own, and couldn't keep oif the subject. I read you 
like a book. You love Mrs. Prout, my dear Doc- 
tor. Therefore you have influence over her. 
No woman is uninfluenced by the man who loves 
her. 

Gardner [laughing hetween self-satisfaction and 
self-con^ciousness~\. You have noticed that I ad- 
mire Mrs. Prout .^ It appears that nothing escapes 
you. 

Christina. That is a trifle. The butler has no- 
ticed it. 

Gardner. The butler ! 

Christine. The butler. 

Gardner [with abandonl. Let him. Let the 
whole world notice. Miss Feversham, be it known 
that I love Mrs. Prout with passionate adoration. 
Before the day is out I shall either be her aflianced 
bridegroom — or I shall be a dead man. 



20 THE STEPMOTHER 

Christine [leaning forward; in a low, tense 
voice']. You proposed to her last night? 

Gardner, I did. 

Christine. And you were to come for the an- 
swer this morning? 

Gardner, Yes. Can you not guess that I am 
eager — excited? Can you not pardon me for 
thinking it is noon at twenty-five minutes to ten? 
Ah, Miss Feversham, if Adrian adores you with 
one-tenth of the fire with which I adore Mrs. 
Prout 

Christine, Stop, Doctor. I do not wish to be 
a burnt sacrifice. Now let me ask you a question. 
You have seen that attack on Mrs. Prout, entitled 
" Medicine in Fiction," in this month's Forum. 
Do you know the author of it? 

Gardner. I don't. Has it disturbed Mrs. 
Prout? 

Christi/ne. It has. Did she not mention it to 
you? 

Gardner, Not a word. If I did know the au- 
thor of it, if I ever do know the author of it, I 
will tear him [fiercely] limb from limb. 

Christine. I trust you will chloroform him first. 
It will be horrid of you if you don't. 

Gardner. I absolutely decline to chloroform 
him first. 

Christine. You must. 

Gardner. I won't. 

Christine. Never mind. Perhaps you will be 



THE STEPMOTHER 21 

dead. Remember that you have promised to kill 
yourself to-day on a certain contingency. 
Should you really do it? Should you really put 
an end to your life if Mrs. Prout gave you a re- 
fusal ? 

Gardner. I swear it. Existence would be 
valueless to me. 

Christine. By the way, Mrs. Prout told me that 
if 3^ou called I was to say that she could see no one. 

Gardner, See no one! But she prom- 
ised . 

Christine. However, she left a note. 

Gardner [starting up'\. Give it me instantly. 
Why didn't you give it me before? 

Christine. I had no opportunity. Besides, I 
haven't transcribed it yet. It was dictated. 

Gardner. Dictated? Are you sure? 

Christine [seriouslyl. Oh, yes, she dictates 
everz/thing. 

Gardner. Well, well, read it to me, read it to 
me. Quick, I say. 

Christine [turning over leaves rapidly']. Here 
it is. Are 3^ou listening? 

Gardner. Great Heaven ! 

Christine [reads from her shorthand note], 
" The answer to your question Is " 

Gardner. Go on. 

Christine [drawing her breath ■first']. "Yes. — 
C. P." There ! I've saved your life for you. 

Gardner, You have indeed, my dear girl. But 



22 THE STEPMOTHER 

I must see her. I must see my beloved Cora. 

Christine [taking his hand J. Accept my advice, 
Doctor — the advice of a simple, artless girl. Do 
not attempt to see her to-day. There are seasons 
of emotion when a woman [stops~\. , . . Go 
downstairs and write to her, and then give the let- 
ter to me. [Pats him on the back.'] 

Gardner. I will, by Jove. Miss Feversham, 
you're a good sort. And as you've told me some- 
thing, I'll tell you something. Adrian is going 
to storm the castle to-day. 

Christine. Adrian ! \_A knock. Enter Adrian.] 

Adrian. Since you command it, I enter. 

Gardner. Let me pass, bold youth. [Exit Dr. 
Gardner hurriedly.] 

Adrian [overcome by Gardner^ s haste]. Why 
this avalanche .f* Has something happened sud- 
denly.? 

Christine. Several things have happened sud- 
denly, Adrian, and several more will probably hap- 
pen when your mamma discovers that you are defy- 
ing her orders in this audacious manner. Why 
are you here.f^ [Kisses him.] You perfect duck! 

Adrian [gravely]. I am not here, Miss Fever- 
sham 

Christine. " Miss Feversham " — and my kiss 
still warm on his lips ! 

Adrian. I repeat, Miss Feversham, that I am 
not here. This [pointing to himself] is not I. It 
is merely a rather smart member of the staff of the 



THE STEPMOTHER 23 

Daily Sna'dy come to interview Cora Prout, the 
celebrated novelist. 

Christine, And I have kissed a Snail reporter. 
Ugh! 

Adrian. Impetuosity has ruined many women. 

Christine. It is a morning of calamities [^as- 
suming the secretarial pose'\. Your card, please. 

Adrian [handing card~\. With pleasure. 

Christine [taking card hy the extreme comer, 
'perusing it mith disdain, and then dropping it on 
the ftoor~\. We never see interviewers in the morn- 
ing. 

Adrian. Then I will call this afternoon. 

Christine. You must write for an appointment. 

Adrian. Oh! I'll take my chances, thanks. 

Christine. We never give them: it is our rule. 
We have to be very particular. The fact is, we 
hate being interviewed, and we only submit to the 
process out of a respectful regard for the great 
and enUghtened pubhc. Any sort of notoriety, 
any suggestion of self-advertisement, is distaste- 
ful to us. What do you wish to interview us 
about .'^ If it's the new novel, we are absolutely 
mum. Accept that from me. 

Adrian. It isn't the new novel. The Snail 
wishes to know whether Mrs. Prout feels inclined 
to make any statement in reply to that article, 
"'Medicine in Fiction," in the Forum. 

Christine. Oh, Adrian, do you know anything 
about that article.? 



24i THE STEPMOTHER 

Adrian, Rather! I know all about it. 

Christine, You treasure! You invaluable dar- 
ling! I will marry you to-morrow morning by 
special licence 

Adrian. Recollect, it is a Snail reporter whom 
you are addressing. Suppose I were to print that ! 

Christine, Just so. You are prudence itself, 
while I, for the moment, happen to be a little — a 
little abnormal. I saved a man's life this morn- 
ing, and it is apt to upset one's nerves. It is a 
dreadful thing to do — to save a man's life. And 
the consequences will be simply frightful for me 
[buries her face in her hands^, 

Adrian, Christine [taking her hands'], what 
are you raving about? You are not yourself. 

Christine, I wish I wasn't [looking up with 
forced calrri]. Adrian, there is a possibility of 
your being able to save me from the results of my 
horrible act, if only you will tell me the name of 
the author of that article in the Forum, 

Adrian [tenderly], Christine, you little know 
what you ask. But for you I will do anything. 
. Kiss me, my white lily. [She kisses 
him.] 

Christine [whispers]. Tell me. [He folds her 
up in his arms.] 

Enter Mrs, Prout excitedly, 

Mrs, Prout [as she enters], Christine, that ap- 
palling butler has actually left the house . 
[observing group]. Heavens! 



THE STEPMOTHER 25 

Christine [quietly disengaging herself]. You 
seem a little better, Mrs. Prout. A person to inter- 
view jou from the Daily Snail \_pointing to 
Adrian], 

Mrs. Prout. Adrian! 

Adrian. Yes, Mamma. 

Mrs. Prout [^opening her lips to speak and then 
closing tJiem]. Sit down. 

Adrian. Certainly, Mamma [51^5]. 

Mrs. Prout. How dare you come here? 

Adrian. I don't know how, Mamma \^picks up 
his card from the floor and hands it to her; then 
resumes his seat]. 

Mrs. Prout [glancing at card]. Pah! 

Christine. That's just what I told the person, 
Mrs. Prout. \_Mrs. Prout burns her up with a 
glance.] 

Mrs. Prout. You have, then, abandoned your 
medical studies, for which I had paid all the fees.'^ 

Adrian. Yes, Mamma. You see, I was obliged 
to earn something at once. So I took to journal- 
ism. I am getting on quite nicely. The editor 
of the Snail says that I may review your next book. 

Mrs. Prout. Unnatural stepson, to review in 
cold blood the novel of your own stepmother ! But 
this morning I am getting used to misfortunes. 

Adrian. It cuts me to the heart to hear you 
refer to any action of mine as a misfortune for 
you. Perhaps you would prefer that I should at 
once relieve you of my presence? 



26 THE STEPMOTHER 

Mrs. Prout, Decidedly, yes — that is, if Chris- 
tine thinks she can do without the fifth act of that 
caress which I interrupted. 

Christine. The curtain was ah'eady falhng, 
madam. 

Mrs. Prout. Very well. \_To Adrian.l Good- 
day. 

Adrian. As a stepson I retire. As the " spe- 
cial " of the Daily Snail I must insist on remain- 
ing. A " special " of the Daily Snail is incapable 
of being snubbed. He knows what he wants, and 
he gets it, or he ceases to be a " special " of the 
Daily Snail, 

Mrs. Prout. I esteem the press, and though I 
should prefer an existence of absolute privacy, I 
never refuse its demands. I sacrifice myself to my 
public, freely acknowledging that a great artist 
has no exclusive right to the details of his own 
daily life. A great artist belongs to the world. 
What is it you want, Mr. Snail? 

Adrian. I want to know whether you care to 
say anything in reply to that article on " Medicine 
in Fiction " in the Forum. 

Mrs. Prout [sinhing hack in despair^. That 
article again! [sitting up'\. Tell me — do you 
know the author? 

Adrian. I do. 

Mrs. Prout. His name! 

Adrian. He is a friend of mine. 

Mrs. Prout. His name ! 



THE STEPMOTHER 27 

Adrian, I am informed that in writing it he 
was actuated by the highest motives. His desire 
was not only to make a little money, but to revenge 
himself against a person who had deeply injured 
him. He didn't know much about medicine, being 
only a student, and probably the larger part of his 
arguments could not be sustained, but he knew 
enough to make a show, and he made it. 

Mrs. Prout, His name ! I insist. 

Adrian. Adrian Spout or Prout — I have a 
poor memory. 

Mrs. Prout, Is it possible? 

Christine, Monster ! 

Adrian. Need I defend myself, Mamma? Con- 
sider what you had done to me. You had devas- 
tated my young heart, which was just unfolding 
to its first passion. You had blighted the spring- 
time of the exquisite creature [looking at Chris- 
tine, who is moved hy the feeling in his tones^ — 
the exquisite creature who was dearer to me than 
all the world. In place of the luxury of my late 
father's house you offered me — the street. . . . 

Christine, Yes . . . and Gower Street. 

Adrian. You, who should have gently fostered 
and encouraged the frail buds of my energy and 
intelligence — you cast me forth 

Christine. Cast them forth. 

Adrian. Cast them forth, untimely plucked, to 
wither, and perhaps die, in the deserts of a great 
city. And for what? For what? 



^8 THE STEPMOTHER 

Christine, Merely lest she should be deprived 
of W2/ poor services. Ah ! Mrs. Prout, can you 
wonder that Mr. Adrian should actively resent 
such conduct — you with your marvellous knowl- 
edge of human nature .^^ 

Mrs. Prout, Adrian, did you really write it? 

Adrian, Why, of course. You seem rather 
pleased than otherwise, INIamma. 

Mrs. Prout [after cogitating^ . Ah ! You 
didn't write it, really. You are just boasting. It 
is a plot, a plot ! 

Adrian. I can prove that I wrote it, since you 
impugn my veracity. 

Mrs. Prout, How can you prove it.f^ 

Adrian. By producing the cheque which I re- 
ceived from the Forum this very morning. 

Mrs. Prout, Produce it, and I will forgive all. 

Adrian [with a sign to Christine that he entirely 
fails to comprehend the situation^. I fly. It is 
in my humble attic, round the comer. Back in 
two minutes. [Exit Adrian.^ 

Mrs. Prout, Christine, did he really write it? 

Christine. Can you doubt his word? Was it 
for lying that you ejected the poor youth from this 
residence ? 

Mrs, Prout. Ah! If he did! [smiles.'] Of 
course Dr. Gardner has not called? 

Christine. Yes, he was in about twenty minutes 
ago. 



THE STEPMOTHER 29 

Mrs, Prout \^agonised^. Did you give him my 
note ? 

Christine. No. 

Mrs, Prout. Thank Heaven ! 

Christine. I had not copied it out, so I read it 
to him. 

Mrs. Prout. You read it to him? 

Christine. Yes; that seemed the obvious thing 
to do. 

Mrs. Prout \in black despair^. All is over 
\_sinl;s hack^. 

Enter Dr. Gardner hastily, 

Christine. Again? 

Gardner [excited^. I was looking out of the 
window of my flat when I saw Adrian tear along 
the street. I said to myself, " A man, even a re- 
porter, only runs like that when a doctor is re- 
quired, and urgently required. Some one is ill, 
perhaps my darling Cora." So I flew upstairs. 

Mrs. Prout [with a shriek']. Dr. Gardner! 

Gardner. You are indeed ill, my beloved {^ap- 
proaching her~\. What is the matter? 

Mrs. Prout [waving him off]* It is nothing, 
Doctor. Could you get me some salts? I have 
mislaid mine [sighs]. 

Gardner. Salts! In an instant. [Exit Dr. 
Gardner.] 

Mrs. Prout. Christine, you said you read my 
note to Dr. Gardner. 



30 THE STEPMOTHER 

Christine, Yes, Mrs. Prout. 

Mrs, Prout, His behaviour is singular in the 
extreme. He seems positively overjoyed, while 

the freedom of his endearing epithets What 

were the precise terms I used? Read me the note. 

Christine, Yes, Mrs. Prout [^reads demurely^, 
" The answer to your question is ' Yes,' " — with a 
capital N, 

Mrs, Prout, " Yes " with a capital N? 

Christine [calmly^, I mean with a capital F. 
[Christine and Mrs, Prout look steadily at each 
other. Then they both smile. Enter Dr, Gard- 
ner, ~\ 

Gardner [handing the salts'\. You are sure 
you are not ill? 

Mrs, Prout [smiling at him radiantly'^, I am 
convinced of it. Christine, will you kindly reach 
me down the dictionary from that shelf? [While 
Christine^s hack is turned Dr. Gardner gives, and 
Mrs. Prout returns, a passionate kiss^, 

Christine [handing dictionary~\. Here it is, 
Mrs. Prout. 

Mrs, Prout [after consulting if], I tKoughl I 
could not be mistaken. Christine, you have ren- 
dered me a service [regarding her affectionately^ 
— a service for which I shall not forget to express 
my gratitude ; but I am obliged to dismiss you in- 
stantly from my service. 

Christine, Dismiss me, madam? 



THE STEPMOTHER 31 

Gardner. Cora, can you be so cruel? 

Mrs. Front. Alas, yes ! She has sinned the 
secretarial sin which is beyond forgiveness. She 
has misspelt. 

Gardner. Impossible ! 

Mrs. Prout. It is too true. 

Gardner. Tell me the sad details. 

Mrs. Prout. She has been guilty of spelling 
" No " with a " Y." 

Gardner. Dear me ! And a word of one sylla- 
ble, too! Miss Feversham, I should not have 
thought it of you. [Enter Adrian.^ 

Adrian [as lie hands a cheque for Mrs. Prout' s 
inspection^. Here again, Doctor.'^ 

Gardner. Yes, and to stay. 

Mrs. Prout. Adrian, the Doctor and I are en- 
gaged to be married. And tallving of marriage, 
you observe that girl there in the corner. Take 
her and marry her at the earliest convenient mo- 
ment. She is no longer my secretary. 

Adrian. What! You consent? 

Mrs. Prout. I consent. 

Adrian. And you pardon my article? 

Mrs. Prout. No, my dear Adrian, I ignore it. 
Here, take your ill-gotten gains [returning 
cheque^. They will bring you no good. And 
since they will bring you no good, I have decided 
to allow you the sum of five hundred pounds a year. 
You must have something. 



32 THE STEPMOTHER 

Adrian. Stepmother! 

Christine ^advancing to take Mrs, Front's 
hand] . Stepmother-in-law ! 

Gardner, Cora, you are an angel. 

Mrs, Prout, Merely an artist, my dear Tom, 
merely an artist. I have the dramatic sense — 
that is all. 

Adrian. Your sense is more than dramatic, it is 
common ; it is even horse. What about the Snail 
" special," mummy ? 

Mrs. Prout. My attitude is one of strict 
silence. 

Adrian, But I must go away with something. 

Mrs, Prout. Strict silence. The attack is be- 
neath my notice. 

Adrian. But what can I say? 

Christine, Say that Mrs. Prout's late secretary, 
Miss Feversham, having retired from her post, has 
already entered upon a career of original literary 
composition. That will be a nice newsy item, 
won't it.f^ 

Adrian [taking out notebook]. Rather! What 
is she at work on.^^ 

Christine, Oh, well, I scarcely 

Gardner. I know — " Hysteria in Lady Novel- 
ists." 

Mrs, Prout, What? 

Gardner [^to Christine]. Didn't you tell me so? 

Christine. Of course I didn't, Doctor. What 



THE STEPMOTHER 33 

a shocking memory you have! It is worse than 
my spelling. 

Gardner, Then what did you say? 

Christine, I said, " Generosity in Lady Novel- 
ists." 

\Curtain,'\ 

[1899] 



A GOOD WOMAN- 
FARCE IN ONE ACT 



CHARACTERS 

James Brett, a Clerk in the War Office, 33, 
Gerald O'Mara, a Civil Engineer, 24. 
EosAMUND Fife, a Spinster and a Lecturer on 
Cookery, 28. 



A GOOD WOMAN 

Scene. — Rosamund's Flat; the drawing-room^ 
The apartment is plainly furnished. There 
is a screen in the corner of the room furthest 
from the door. It is 9 a. m, Rosamund is 
seated alone at a table. She wears a neat 
travelling-dress, with a plain straw hat. Her 
gloves lie on a chair. A small portable desk 
full of papers is open before her. She gazes 
straight in front of her, smiling vaguely. 
With a start she recovers from her day- 
dreams, and rushing to the looking-glass, i/nr 
spects her features therein* Then she looks 
at her watch. 

Rosamund. Three hours yet! I'm a fool 
[^with decision. She sits down again, and idly 
picks up a paper out of the desk. The door 
opens, unceremoniously but quietly, and James en- 
ters. The two stare at each other, James wearing 
a conciliatory smilel. 

Rosamund. You appalling creature! 

James. I couldn't help it, I simply couldn't 
help it. 

Rosamund. Do you know this is the very 
height and summit of indelicacy ? 
39 



40 A GOOD WOMAN 

James. I was obliged to come. 

Rosamund. If I had any relations 

James. Which you haven't. 

Rosamund. I say if I had any relations 

James. I say which you haven't. 

Rosamund. Never mind, it is a safe rule for 
unattached women always to behave as if they had 
relations, especially female relations, whether they 
have any or not. My remark is, that if I had any 
relations they would be absolutely scandalised by 
this atrocious conduct of yours. 

James. What have I done.? 

Rosamund. Can you ask.? Here are you, and 
here am I. We are to be married to-day at twelve 
o'clock. The ceremony has not taken place, and 
yet you are found on my premises. You must 
surely be aware that on the day of the wedding the 
parties — yes, the " parties," that is the word — 
should on no account see each other till they see 
each other in church. 

James. But since we are to be married at a 
registry office, does the rule apply.? 

Rosamund. Undoubtedly. 

James. Then I must apologise. My excuse is 
that I am not up in these minute details of cir- 
cumspection ; you see I have been married so sel- 
dom. 

Rosamund. Evidently. [A pause, during 
which James at last ventures to approach the mid- 
dle of the room.'] Now you must go back home. 



A GOOD WOMAN 41 

and we'll pretend we haven't seen each other. 

James, Never, Rosamund! That would be 
acting a lie. And I couldn't dream of getting 
married with a lie on my lips. It would be so un- 
usual. No; we have sinned, or rather I have 
sinned, on this occasion. I will continue to sin — 
openly, brazenly. Come here, my dove. A bird 
in the hand is worth two under a bushel. \^He as- 
sumes an attitude of entreatyy and, leaving her 
chair, Rosamund goes towards him. They ex- 
change an ardent kiss.'\ 

Rosamund [quietly submissive'^. I'm awfully 
busy, you know, Jim. 

James. I will assist you in your little duties, 
dearest, and then I will accompany you to the 

sacred ed to the registry office. Now, what 

were you doing? [She sits down, and he puts a 
chair for himself close beside h^r.'\ 

Rosamund. You are singularly unlike your- 
self this morning, dearest. 

James. Nervous tension, my angel. I should 
have deemed it impossible that an employe of the 
War Office could experience the marvellous and 
exquisite sensations now agitating my heart. 
But tell me, what are you doing with these 
papers ? 

Rosamund. Well, I was just going to look 
through them and see if they contained anything 
t)f a remarkable or valuable nature. You see, I 
hadn't anything to occupy myself with. 



42 A GOOD WOMAN 

James, Was 'oo bored, waiting for the timey- 
pimey to come? 

Rosamund [hands caressing^. 'Iss, little pet 
was bored, she was. Was Mr. Pet lonely this 
morning? Couldn't he keep away from his little 
cooky-lecturer? He should see his little cooky- 
lecturer. 

James. And that reminds me, hadn't we better 
lunch in the train instead of at Willis's? That 
will give us more time? 

Rosamund. Horrid greedy piggywiggy! Per- 
haps he will be satisfied if Mrs. Pet agrees to lunch 
both at Willis's and in the train? 

James. Yes. Only piggywiggy doesn't want 
to trespass on Mrs. Pet's good nature. Let pig- 
gywiggy look at the papers. [He takes up a pa- 
per from the desk.l 

Rosamund [a little ser'iously'\. No, Jimmy. I 
don't think we'll go through them. Perhaps it 
wouldn't be wise. Just let's destroy them. 
[Takes paper from his hand and drops it in desk.^ 

James [sternli/'\ . When you have been the wife 
of a War Office clerk for a week you will know 
that papers ought never to be destroyed. Now I 
come to think, it is not only my right but my duty 

to examine this secret dossier. Who knows 

[Takes up at random another document^ which 
proves to he a postcard. Reads. 1 " Shall come 
to-morrow night. Thine, Gerald." 

Rosamund [after a startled shriek of constema- 



A GOOD WOMAN 45 

tlon]. There! There! You've done it, first 
time! [She begins to think, with knitted brows.'\ 

Jarnes. Does this higlily suspicious postcard 
point to some — some episode in your past of 
which you have deemed it advisable to keep me in 
ignorance? If so, I seek not to inquire. I for- 
give you — I take you, Rosamund, as you are! 

Rosamund [reflective, not heeding his remark'], 
I had absolutely forgotten the whole affair, abso- 
lutely. [Smiles a little. Aside.] Suppose he 
should come! [To James.] Jim, I think I had 
better tell you all about Gerald. It will interest 
you. Besides, there is no knowing what may hap- 
pen. 

James. As I have said, I seek not to inquire. 
[Stifjiy .] Nor do I imagine that this matter, 
probably some childish entanglement, would inter- 
est me. 

Rosamund. Oh, wouldn't it ! Jim, don't be 
absurd. You know perfectly well you are dying 
to hear. 

James. Very well, save my life, then, at the 
least expense of words. To begin with, who is 
this Gerald — "thine," thine own Gerald.? 

Rosamund. Don't you remember Gerald 
O'Mara.? You met him at the Stokes's, I feel sure. 
You know — the young engineer. 

James. Oh ! That ass ! 

Rosamund. He isn't an ass. He's a very nice 
boy. 



U A GOOD WOMAN 

James. For the sake of argument and dispatch, 
agreed ! Went out to Cyprus or somewhere, didn't 
he, to build a bridge, or make a dock, or dig a well, 
or something of that kind? 

Rosamund Inodding'], Now listen, I'll tell you 
all about it. [Settles herself for a long narra- 
tion.l Four years ago poor, dear Gerald was 
madly in love with me. He was twenty and I was 
twenty-four. Keep calm — I felt like his aunt. 
Don't forget I was awfully pretty in those days. 
Well, he was so tremendously in love that in order 
to keep him from destroying himself — of course, 
I knew he was going out to Cyprus — I sort of 
pretended to be sympathetic. I simply had to ; 
Irishmen are so passionate. And he was very nice. 
And I barely knew you then. Well, the time ap- 
proached for him to leave for Cyprus, and two 
days before the ship sailed he sent me that very 
postcard that by pure chance you picked up. 

James, He should have written a letter. 

Rosamund. Ah! I expect he couldn't wait. 
He was so impulsive. Well, on the night before 
he left England he came here and proposed to me. 
I remember I was awfully tired and queer. I had 
been giving a lecture in the afternoon on " How 
to Pickle Pork," and the practical demonstration 
had been rather smelly. However, the proposal 
braced me up. It was the first I had had — that 
year. Well, I was so sorry for him that I couldn't 
say " No " outright. It would have been too bru- 



A GOOD WOMAN 45 

tal. He might have killed himself on the spot, and 
spoilt this carpet, which, by the way, was new then. 
So I said, " Look here, Gerald " 

James, You called him " Gerald " ? 

Rosamund. Rather! " Look here, Gerald," I 
said ; " you are going to Cyprus for four years. 
If your feeling towards me is what you think it 
is, come back to me at the end of those four years, 
and I will then give you an answer." Of course I 
felt absolutely sure that in the intervening period 
he would fall in and out of love half a dozen times 
at least. 

James. Of course, half a dozen times at least; 
probably seven. What did he say in reply? 

Rosamund. He agreed with all the seriousness 
in the world. " On this day four years hence," he 
said, standing just there [pointing']^ "I will re- 
turn for your answer. And in the meantime I will 
live only for you." That was what he said — his 
very words. 

James. And a most touching speech, too ! And 
then? 

Rosamund. We shook hands, and he tore him- 
self away, stifling a sob. Don't forget, he was a 
boy. 

James. Have the four years expired? 

Rosamund. What is the date of that postcard? 
Let me see it. [^Snatches it, and smiles at the 
handwriting pensively.^ July 4th — four years 
ago. 



46 A GOOD WOMAN 

James. Then it's over. He's not coming. 
To-day is July 5th. 

Rosamund. But yesterday was Sunday. He 
wouldn't come on Sunday. He was always very 
particular and nice. 

James. Do you mean to imply that you think 
he will come to-day and demand from you an 
affirmative? A moment ago you gave me to un- 
derstand that in your opinion he would have — er 
— other affairs to attend to. 

Rosamund. Yes. I did think so at the time. 
But now — now I have a kind of idea that he may 
come, that after all he may have remained faith- 
ful. You know I was maddeningly pretty then, 
and he had my photograph. 

James. Tell me, have you corresponded? 

Rosamund. No, I expressly forbade it. 

James. Ah ! 

Rosamund. But still, I have a premonition he 
may come. 

James [assuming a pugnacious pose~\. If he 
does, I will attend to him. 

Rosamund. Gerald was a terrible fighter. \_A 
resounding knock is heard at the door. Both start 
molently, and look at each other in silence. Rosa- 
WMnd goes to the door and opens it.'] 

Rosamund [with an unsteady laugh of relief]. 
Only the postman with a letter. [She returns to 
her seat.] No, I don't expect he will come, really. 



A GOOD WOMAN 47 

\_Puts letter idly on table. Another knock still 
louder. Renewed start. ~\ 

Rosamund. Now that is he, I'm positive. He 
always knocked like that. Just fancy. After 
four years! Jim, just take the chair behind that 
screen for a bit. I must hide you. 

James, No, thanks ! The screen dodge is a 
trifle too frayed at the edges. 

Rosamund. Only for a minute. It would be 
such fun. 

James. No, thanks. [Another knock.'\ 

Rosamund [with forced sweetness^. Oh, very 
well, then. . . . 

James. Oh, well, of course, if you take it in 

that way [He proceeds to a chair behind 

screen, which does not, however, hide him from the 
audience. 1 

Rosamund [smiles his reward^. I'll explain it 
all right. [Loudly.~\ Come in! [Enter Gerald 
O'il/ara.] 

Gerald. So you are in ! [Hastens across room 
to shake hands.'] 

Rosamund. Oh, yes, I am In. Gerald, how are 
you? I must say you look tolerably well. [They 
sit down.] 

Gerald. Oh ! I'm pretty fit, thanks. Had the 
most amazing time in spite of the climate. And 
you? Rosie, you haven't changed a little bit. 
How's the cookery trade getting along? Are you 



48 A GOOD WOMAN 

still showing people how to concoct French dinners 
out of old bones and a sardine tin? 

Rosamund. Certainly. Only I can do it with- 
out the bones now. You see, the science has 
progressed while you've been stagnating in 
Cyprus. 

Gerald. Stagnating is the word. You wouldn't 
believe that climate ! 

Rosamund. What! Not had nice weather? 
What a shame 1 I thought it was tremendously 
sunshiny in Cyprus. 

Gerald. Yes, that's just what it is, 9*7° in the 
shade when it doesn't happen to be pouring with 
malarial rain. We started a little golf club at 
Nicosia, and laid out a nine-hole course. But the 
balls used to melt. So we had to alter the rules, 
keep the balls in an ice-box, and take a fresh one 
at every hole. Think of that! 

Rosamund. My poor boy! But I suppose 
there were compensations ? You referred to " an 
amazing time." 

Gerald. Yes, there were compensations. And 
that reminds me, I want you to come out and lunch 
with me at the Savoy. I've got something awfully 
important to ask you. In fact, that's what I've 
come for. 

Rosamund. Sorry I can't, Gerald. The fact 
is, I've got something awfully important on myself 
just about lunch time. 

Gerald. Oh, yours can wait. Look here, I've 



A GOOD WOMAN 49 

ordered the lunch. I made sure 3^ou'd come. 
[Rosamund shakes her head.'] Why can't you? 
It's not cooking, Is it? 

Rosamund. Only a goose. 

Gerald. What goose ? 

Rosamund. Well — my own, and somebody 
else's. Listen, Gerald. Had you not better ask 
me this awfully important question now? No time 
like the present. 

Gerald. I can always talk easier, especially on 
delicate topics, with a pint of something handy. 
But if you positively won't come, I'll get it off my 
chest now. The fact is, Rosie, I'm In love. 

Rosamund. With whom? 

Gerald. Ah! That's just what I want you to 
tell me. 

Rosamund [suddenly starting~\. Gerald! what 
Is that dreadful thing sticking out of your pocket, 
and pointing right at me? 

Gerald. That? That's my revolver. Always 
carry them In Cyprus, you know. Plenty of sport 
there. 

Rosamund [breathing again']. Kindly take It 
out of your pocket and put it on the table. Then 
if It does go off, it will go off into something less 
valuable than a cookery-lecturer. 

Gerald [laughingly obeying her]. There. If 
anything happens it will happen to the screen. 
Now, Rosie, I'm in love, and I desire that you 
should tell me whom I'm In love with. There's a 



50 A GOOD WOMAN 

magnificent girl in Cyprus, daughter of the Super- 
intendent of PoHce 

Rosamund, Name ? 

Gej-ald. Evelyn. Age nineteen. I tell you I 
was absolutely gone on her. 

Rosamund. Symptoms ? 

Gerald. Well — er — whenever her name was 
mentioned I blushed terrifically. Of course, that 
was only one symptom. . . . Then I met a 
girl on the home steamer — no father or mother. 
An orphan, you know, awfully interesting. 

Rosamund. Name.? 

Gerald. Madge. Nice name, isn't it? [Rosa- 
mund nods.^ I don't mind telling you, I was con- 
siderably struck by her — still am, in fact. 

Rosamund. Symptoms ? 

Gerald. Oh! . . . Let me see, I never 
think of her without turning absolutely pale. I 
suppose it's what they call " pale with passion." 
Notice it.? 

Rosamund [somewhat coldly']. It seems to me 
the situation amounts to this. There are two girls. 
One is named Evelyn, and the thought of her makes 
you blush. The other is named Madge, and the 
thought of her makes you turn pale. You fancy 
yourself in love, and you wish me to decide for you 
whether it is Madge or Evelyn who agitates your 
breast the more deeply. 

Gerald, That's not exactly the way to put it, 
Rosie. You take a fellow up too soon. Of course 



A GOOD WOMAN 51 

I must tell you lots more yet. You should hear 
Evelyn play the " Moonlight Sonata." It's the 
most marvellous thing. . . . And then Madge's 
eyes ! The way that girl can look at a fellow. 
. . . I'm telling you all these things, you know, 
Rosie, because I've always looked up to you as an 
elder sister. 

Rosamund [after a pause, during which she 
gazes into his face'\, I suppose it was in my char- 
acter of your elder sister, that you put a certain 
question to me four years ago last night? 

Gerald [staggered; pulls himself together for a 
great resolve; after a long pause^. Rosie! I 
never thought afterwards you'd take it seriously. 
I forgot it all. I was only a boy then. [Speak- 
ing quicker and quicker. ~\ But I see clearly now. 
I never could withstand you. It's all rot about 
Evelyn and INIadge. It's you I'm in love with ; and 
I never guessed it! Rosie! . . . [Rushes to 
her and impetuously flings his arms around her 
neck.~\ 

James [who, during the foregoi/ng scene, has 
been full of uneasy gestures; leaping with incredi- 
ble swiftness from the shelter of the screen^. Sir! 

Rosamund [pushing Gerald quietly away']. 
Gerald ! 

James. May I inquire, sir, what is the precise 
significance of this attitudinising? [Gerald has 
scarcely yet abandoned his amorous pose, but now 
does so quickly. ~\ Are we in the middle of a scene 



52 A GOOD WOMAN 

from " Romeo and Juliet," or is this 9 :30 a. m. in 
the nineteenth century? If Miss Fife had played 
the " Moonlight Sonata " to you, or looked at you 
as Madge does, there might perhaps have been some 
shadow of an excuse for your extraordinary and 
infamous conduct. But since she has performed 
neither of these feats of skill, I fail to grasp — I 
say I fail to grasp — er 

Gerald [slowly recovering from an amazement 
which has rendered him mute~\ . Rosie, a man con- 
cealed in 3^our apartment! But perhaps it is the 
piano-tuner. I am willing to believe the best. 

Rosamund. Let me introduce Mr. James Brett, 
my future husband. Jim, this is Gerald. 

James. I have gathered as much. \^The men 
bow sti-ffly.'] 

Rosamund \_dreamily'\. Poor, poor Gerald! 
\^Her tone is full of feeling. James is evidently 
deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and stead- 
ily to the table and picks up the revolver.^ 

Gerald. Sir, that tool is mine. 

James, Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine 
of destruction, and that I intend to use it. Rosa- 
mund, the tone in which you uttered those three 
words, " Poor, poor Gerald ! " convinces me, a keen 
observer of symptoms, that I no longer possess 
your love. Without your love, life to me is mean- 
ingless. I object to anything meaningless — 
even a word. I shall therefore venture to deprive 
myself of life. Good-bye ! [To Gerald.] Sir, I 



A GOOD WOMAN 53 

may see you later. [^Raises the revolver to his tem- 
ples. '\ 

Rosamund \_appeaUng to Gerald to interfere^. 
Gerald ! 

Gerald. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver 
is mine. It would be a serious breach of good 
manners if you used it without my consent, a social 
solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss 
Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the in- 
strument happens to be in your hand, you may use 
it — but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, 
to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand 
in the way of another's happiness, as I should do 
if I continued to exist. At the same time I have 
conscientious objections to suicide. You will 
therefore do me a service by aiming straight. 
Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely 
mention it because I perceive that you are unaccus- 
tomed to the use of firearms. [Folds Ms arms,'\ 

James, Rosamund, do you love me ? 

Rosamund, My Jim 1 

James [deeply moved']. The possessive pro- 
noun convinces me that you do. [SmUing bland- 
ly.] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable de- 
mand. [Aims at Gerald.] 

Rosamund [half shrkking]. I don't love you 
if you shoot Gerald. 

James. But, my dear, this is Irrational. He 
has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as 
promised to do so. 



54 A GOOD WOMAN 

Rosamund [entreating~\. James, in two hours 
we are to be married . . . Think of the com- 
plications. 

Gerald. Married ! To-day ! Then I withdraw 
my request. 

James, Yes ; perhaps it will be as well. [^Low- 
ers revolver. '\ 

Gerald. I have never yet knowingly asked a 
friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his 
wedding-day, and I will not begin now. More- 
over, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't 
loaded. Mr. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a 
ridiculous position. I apologise. 

James. I accept the apology. \_The general 
tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle 
gently y in the effort after unconcern.^ 

Rosamund. Jim, will you oblige me by putting 
that revolver down somewhere. I know it isn't 
loaded; but so many people have been killed by 
guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer 
\_He puts it down on the table.'] Thank 
you! 

James [picking up letter]. By the way, here's 
that letter that came just now. Aren't you going 
to open it? The writing seems to me to be some- 
thing like Lottie Dickinson's. 

Rosamund Itahing the letter]. It isn't Lottie's ; 
it's her sister's. [Stares at envelope.] I know 
what it is. I know what it is. Lottie is ill, or 
dead, or something, and can't come and be a wit- 



A GOOD WOMAN 55 

ness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if 
she's dead we can't be married to-day ; it wouldn't 
be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have 
a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black 
border on the envelope, so she can't be dead. And 
yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to 
buy mourning stationery ! This is the result of 
3'our coming here this morning. I felt sure some- 
thing would happen. Didn't I tell you so? 

James, No, you didn't, my dear. But why 
don't you open the letter .^^ 

Rosamund, I am opening it as fast as I can. 
[Reads it hurriedly.'\ There! I said so! Lottie 
fell off her bicycle last night, and broke her ankle 
— won't be able to stir for a fortnight — in great 
pain — hopes it won't iTWonvenience us ! 

James. Inconvenience ! I must say I regard it 
as very thoughtless of Lottie to go bicycling the 
very night before our wedding. Where did she 
fall off? 

Rosamund. Sloane Street. 

James. That makes it positively criminal. She 
always falls off in Sloane Street. She makes a 
regular practice of it. I have noticed it before. 

Rosamund. Perhaps she did it on purpose. 

James. Not a doubt of it ! 

Rosamund. She doesn't want us to get married ! 

James. I have sometimes suspected that she had 
a certain tenderness for me. ^Endeavouring to 
look meek.'\ 



56 A GOOD WOMAN 

Rosamund. The cat! 

James, By no means. Cats are never sympa- 
thetic. She is. Let us be just before we are jeal- 
ous. 

Rosamund. Jealous ! My dear James ! Have 
you noticed how her skirts hang.? 

James. Hang her skirts ! 

Rosamund. You wish to defend her? 

James. On the contrary ; it w as I who first ac- 
cused her. [Gerald, to avoid the approaching 
storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, and 
taking some paper from his pocket begins thought- 
fully to write. ~\ 

Rosamund. My dear James, let me advise you 
to keep quite, quite calm. You are a little bit up- 
set. 

James, I am a perfect cucumber. But I can 
hear your breathing. 

Rosamund. If you are a cucumber, you are a 
very indelicate cucumber. I'm not breathing more 
than is necessary to sustain life. 

James. Yes, you are; and what's more you'll 
cry in a minute if you don't take care. You're 
getting worked up. 

Rosamund, No, I shan't. [Sits down and 
cries.'] 

James. What did I. tell you? Now perhaps 
you will inform me what we are quarrelling about, 
because I haven't the least idea. 

Rosamund [through her sobs']. I do think it's 



A GOOD WOMAN 57 

horrid of Lottie. We can't be married with one 
witness. And I didn't want to be married at a 
registry office at all. 

James. My pet, we can easily get another wit- 
ness. As for the registry office, it was yourself 
who proposed it, as a way out of a difficulty. I'm 
High and you're Low 

Rosamund. I'm not Low ; I'm Broad, or else 
Evangelical. 

James [beginning calmly again'\. I'm High 
and you're Broad, and there was a serious question 
about candles and a genuflexion, and so we decided 
on the registry office, which, after all, is much 
cheaper. 

Rosamund [drying her tears, and putting on a 
saintly expression^ . Well, anyhow, James, we will 
consider our engagement at an end. 

James. This extraordinary tiff* has lasted long 
enough, Rosie. Come and be kissed. 

Rosamund [with Increased saintliness']. You 
mistake me, James. I am not quarrelling. I am 
not angry. 

James. Then you have ceased to love me? 

Rosamund. I adore you passionately. But we 
can never marry. Do you not perceive the warn- 
ings against such a course.'' First of all you 
come here — drawn by some mysterious, sinister 
impulse — in breach of all etiquette. That was 
a Sign. 

James. A sign of what? 



58 A GOOD WOMAN 

Rosamund, Evil. Then you find that post- 
card, to remind me of a forgotten episode. 

James. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never 
picked it up. 

Rosamund, Hush ! Then comes this letter 
about Lottie. 

James. Damn that, too! 

Rosamund [^sighs^. Then Gerald arrives. 

James, Damn him, too ! By the way, where is 
he? 

Gerald [coming out from behind the screen']. 
Sir, if you want to influence my future state by 
means of a blasphemous expletive, let me beg you 
to do it when ladies are not present. There are 
certain prayers which should only be uttered in the 
smoking-room. [The two men stab each other 
with their eyes.] 

James. I respectfully maintain, Mr. O'Mara, 
that you had no business to call on my future wife 
within three hours of her wedding, and throw her 
into such a condition of alarm and unrest that she 
doesn't know whether she is going to get married 
or not. 

Gerald, Sir ! How in the name of Heaven was 
I to guess 

Rosamund [rising, with an imperative gesture]. 
Stop! Sit down, both. James [who hesitates]^ 
this is the last request I shall ever make of you. 
[He sits.] Let me speak. Long ago, from a mis- 
taken motive of kindness, I gave this poor boy 



A GOOD WOMAN 59 

[pointing to Gerald] to understand that I loved 
him; that at any rate I should love him in time. 
Supported by that assurance, he existed for four 
years through the climatic terrors of a distant isle. 
I, pampered with all the superfluities of civilisa- 
tion, forgot this noble youth in his exile. I fell 
selfishly in love. I promised to marry 
while he, with nothing to assuage the rigours 

James, Pardon me, there was Evelyn's " Moon- 
light Sonata," not to mention Madge's eyes. 

Rosamund. You jest, James, but the jest is 
untimely. Has he not himself said that these 
doubtless excellent young women were in fact noth- 
ing to him, that it was mz/ image which he kept 
steadfastly in his heart? 

Gerald. Ye — es, of course, Rosie. 

Rosamund [chiefly to James]. The sight of 
this poor youth fills me with sorrow and compunc- 
tion and shame. For it reminds me that four years 
ago I lied to him. 

Gerald. It was awfully good of you, you 
know. 

Rosamund. That is beside the point. At an 
earlier period of this unhappy morning, James, 
you asseverated that you could not dream of get- 
ting married with a lie on your lips. Neither can 
I. James, I love you to madness. [Takes his 
inert hand, shakes it, and drops it again.] Good- 
bye, James \ Henceforth we shall be strangers. 
My duty is towards Gerald. 



60 A GOOD WOMAN 

Gerald, But if you love Mm? 

Rosamund. With a good woman, conscience 
comes first, love second. In time I shall learn to 
love you, I was always quick at lessons. Gerald, 
take me. It is the only way by which I can purge 
my lips of the lie uttered four years ago. [Puts 
her hands on Gerald's shoulders.] 

James, In about three-quarters of an hour you 
will regret this, Rosamund Fife. 

Rosamund. One never regrets a good action. 

Gerald, Oh! well! I say . . . [inarticu- 
late with embarrassment]. 

Rosamund [after a pause]. James we are wait- 
ing. 

James. What for.? 

Rosamund, For you to go. 

James, Don't mind me. You forget that I am 
in the War Office, and accustomed to surprising 
situations. 

Gerald, Look here, Rosie. It's awfully good 
of you, and you're doing me a frightfully kind 
turn ; but I can't accept it, you know. It wouldn't 
do. Kindness spoils my character. 

James, Yes, and think of the shock to the noble 
youth. 

Gerald, I couldn't permit such a sacrifice. 

Rosamund. To a good woman life should be 
one long sacrifice. 

Gerald. Yes, that's all very well, and I tell you, 



A GOOD WOMAN 61 

Rosie, I'm awfully obliged to 3'ou. Of course I'm 
desperately in love with you. That goes without 
saying. But I also must sacrifice myself. The 
fact is . . . there's Madge . . . 

Rosamund. Well.? 

Gerald. Well, you know what a place a steamer 
is, especially in calm, warm weather. I'm afraid 
I've rather led her to expect. . . . The fact 
is, while you and Mr. Brett were having your little 
discussion just now, I emplo3'ed the time in scrib- 
bling out a bit of a letter to her, and I rather fancy 
that I've struck one or two deuced good ideas in 
the proposal line. How's this for a novelty: 
" jMy dear Miss Madge, you cannot fail to have 
noticed from my behaviour in your presence that 
I admire you tremendously .? " Rather a neat be- 
ginning, eh? 

Rosamund. But you said you loved me. 

Gerald. Oh, well, so I do. You see I only state 
that I " admire " her. All the same I feel I'm sort 
of bound to her, . . . you see how I'm fixed. 
I should much prefer, of course 

James. To a good man life should be one long 
sacrifice. 

Gerald. Exactl}^, sir. 

Rosamund [steadying herself and approaching 
James~\. Jim, my sacrifice is over. It was a ter- 
rible ordeal, and nothing but a strict sense of duty 
could have supported me through such a trying 



62 A GOOD WOMAN 

crisis. I am yours. Lead me to the altar. I 
trust Gerald may be happy with this person named 
Madge. 

James. The flame of your love has not fal- 
tered ? 

Rosamund. Ah, no ! 

James. Well, if my own particular flame hadn't 
been fairly robust, the recent draughts might have 
knocked it about a bit. You have no more sac- 
rifices in immediate view.'' . . . \_She looks at 
him in a certain mawellous way, and he suddenly 
swoops down and hisses her.^ To the altar! 
March ! Dash ! we shall want another witness. 

Gerald. Couldn't I serve? 

Rosamund. You're sure it wouldn't be too 
much for your feelings.? 

Gerald! I should enjoy it. ... I mean I 
shan't mind very much. Let us therefore start. 
If we're too soon you can watch the process at 
work on others, and learn how to comport your- 
selves. By the way, honeymoon? 

James, Paris. Charing Cross 1 :30. Dine at 
Dover. 

Gerald. Then you shall eat that lunch I have 
ordered at the Savoy. 

Rosamund. Er — talking of lunch, as I'm 
hostess here, perhaps I should ask you men if you'd 
like a drink. 

James and Gerald \_looking hopefully at each 
otherl. Well, yes. 



A GOOD WOMAN 63 

Rosamund, I have some beautiful lemonade. 

James and Gerald \^still looking at each other, 
but with a different expression']. Oh, that will be 
delightful! [Lemonade and glasses produced.] 

Gerald. I drink to the happy pair. 

Rosamund [a Utile sinister]. And I — to 
Madge. 

James. And I — to a good woman — Mrs. Pet 
[looking at her -fixedly]. All men like a good 
woman, but she shouldn't be too good — it's a 
strain on the system. [General consumption of 
lemonade, the men bravely swallowing it down. 
Rosamund rests her head on Jameses shoulder.] 

Rosamund. It occurs to me, Gerald, you only 
ordered lunch for two at the Savoy. 

Gerald. Well, that's right. By that time you 
and James, if I may call him so, will be one, and 
me makes two. 

[Curtain,] 

[1899] 



A QUESTION OF SEX 
FARCE IN ONE ACT 



CHARACTERS 

George Gower, 27. 

Francis Gower, his Well-preserved Bachelor Uncle. 

May Foster, his Married Sister, 25. 

Helen Stanton, his Wife's Marriefd Sister, 28. 



A QUESTION OF SEX 

Scene. — George Gower's drawing-room. Even- 
ing, George Gower is asleep in an easy-chair 
near the hearth. By his side is a fairly large 
occasional table, on which are some writing 
materials and an empty glass. Enter May 
Foster and Helen Stanton. They open the 
door quietly, and pause on the threshold to ob- 
serve the sleeper. They are both in a pleased, 
gay mood of gentle excitation, but at first 
they speak low. 

May. The wretch still sleeps. 

Helen. Yes. A man is a marvellous thing. 
Such talent in some directions. 

May. Let's wake him now. I should think he'd 
had enough. 

Helen. Enough! Well. . . . It's turned 
seven, and he must have dropped off just after 
lunch. Five hours ! 

May [smiling kindly at her unconscious 
brother^. Ah! He hasn't slept much for the last 
few nights ; he's been so frightfully anxious. 

Helen [raising her eyebrows~\. Anxious! And 
Avhat about his poor wife — what about Ada's anx- 
iety.? How he could sleep like this when he knew 



70 A QUESTION OF SEX 

perfectly well . . . \lifts her hands, and fin- 
ishes hy smiling. The two young women approach 
George^s chair on tiptoe, and indicate to each other 
by gestures that they will waken him in the ortho- 
dox way. Bending down, Helen sniffs at the 
empty glassl. 

Helen. Um! Whisky. Naturally. [She 
then bends to George's face to kiss him, but hesi- 
tates and looks at May.^ 

Helen. Perhaps it would be better if you did it, 
dear. [May quickly kisses him.~\ The privileges 
of a sister-in-law vary in different families. 
[George wakes up. May and Helen stand side by 
side facing him, their hands behind them, smiling, 
and full of mysteries.^ 

George [mechanically reaching out for the 
glass^. What did you say.^^ I do believe I 
dropped off for a second or two. [Fi/nding glass 
empty. ^ Dash! What a thirst I've got on to- 
day ! 

Helen. There! 

George. Well ! What are you two staring at ? 
How's Ada now.? Doctor come yet? 

May [softly'\. George, it's a girl. 

George. What's a girl? Who's a girl? 

Helen. Ifs a girl. [Pause, while the fact of 
his fatherhood dawns upon George. 1^ 

George [starting up'\. Well, I'm damned if this 
isn't the quickest thing of the kind that ever I 
heard of! [He makes a bound for the door.^ 



A QUESTION OF SEX 71 

May [both the girls seizing him]. George, 
come back. You mustn't go to her. She's asleep. 
[Soothing hiiUy and trying to calm his sudden tre- 
mendous excitement.] 

George. Well, I am damned ! Why, it can't be 
a quarter of an hour since I left her 1 [Sinks hack 
into chair. ~\ 

Helen. George Gower, does it not occur to you 
that these terrible oaths are sadly, sadly out of 
place? Recollect that as a father you are consid- 
erably less than a day old. Blasphemy from lips 
so young is an instance of infant depravity, such 
as even I, a district visitor, have seldom seen sur- 
passed. Our curate at Ealing has composed a 
special form of prayer for young parents. I have 
brought it over with me, and I shall ask you to — 
to make it your own. In the meantime I beg you 
not to disgrace the sacred name of father. Think 
of poor, dear Ada. Ah, my darling sister has be- 
haved splendidly! Think of what she has been 
through ! 

George. That's just what I am thinking of, and 
the more I think the more I can't 

May [interrupting him]. Why, George, you 
silly, you've been asleep five hours, and 

George. I swear I haven't. 

Helen. No more swearing, I entreat. You 
have been asleep five hours. It's turned seven 
o'clock. Your daughter is some three hours 
old . . . 



7a A QUESTION OF SEX 

May. Yes, and everything went off beautifully. 
Ada cried a bit 

Helen, Ada was simply superb. 

May. Yes, she was, dear. She's asleep now, 
George. And the baby's the loveliest little 
thing 

Helen. The doctor says he never saw a finer. 

May. Yes, and nurse says so, too. And she's 
got lots of hair. 

Helen. And cry — ! She's got lungs like bel- 
lows. 

George [sitting up severely~\. Why didn't you 
come and wake me up? Answer me. For any- 
thing you knew, I might have been doing the most 
awful things to the sacred name of father during 
those three hours — and quite innocently. Helen, 
you at least . . . [ends with a reproachful 
gesture^ . 

Helen. Well, I did ask May to go down and sit 
with you. 

May [to Helen]. But, dear, I couldn't have 
dreamt of leaving Ada. 

Helen. Why not, dear? I came over specially 
from Ealing, and left my own little ones and 
Ernest, in order to see after Ada myself. 

May. And I came from Harrow, which is much 
further than Ealing. I haven't any little ones ; but 
if I had I should have left them, I'm sure I should 
[plaintivelyl . I left Jack and the two kittens, and 
there was nothing else to leave. 



A QUESTION OF SEX 73 

Helen, But it is a question of experience, dear. 

May. Well, I don't know, dear. It seems to 
me that common sense and a cool head are better 
than experience. 

Helen. But surely, dear, you don't suggest 

Oh ! [Suddenly forgetting this little pas- 

sage of arms, and thinking of something im- 
portant,'] We didn't \_whispers in May's 

ear]. 

May, Gracious heavens ! Do you think nurse 
will remember? 

Helen. Probably not. I have had three differ- 
ent nurses myself, and they're all alike. I'll just 
run up and see to it. [George is mystified, as males 
are.] 

May. Oh, no ! I'll go, dear. 

Helen. Oh, no! I'll go, dear. Where were 
the safety pins put.? 

May. I know. I'll go. 

Helen. My dear, I really think , . . 

George. If it's anything serious, hadn't you 
better both go ? Further delay might be fatal, and 
I should like to avoid being cut off in my infancy 
as a father. 

Helen, May shall go. 

May, Not at all. I should much prefer Helen 
to go. She is so experienced. \_A pause; and then 
Helen, pursing her lips, and looking as much like a 
martyred saint as she can, departs.] 

George, A girl! [Sighs.] 



74> A QUESTION OF SEX 

May, George, what's the matter? I thought 
all the time that jou didn't receive our news with 
that ecstatic abandonment of joy which I believe 
is usual under the circumstances. Why aren't you 
glad and proud? Why don't you weep happy 
tears of relief and contentment ? Is it possible you 
are so lost to all parental feeling as to be indiffer- 
ent when your wife presents you with a dear little 
darling baby? 

George, May, you're a very decent sort, but 
if you say two more words in that strain, I'll go 
upstairs and I'll wring that kid's neck. I couldn't 
permit any child of mine to be niece to a woman 
who talked like that. Remember that as a father 
I have duties, responsibilities. 

May. You're not well. I see it now. You're 
suffering. Of course it must be a great strain on 
the system to wake up and find yourself a father. 
George, forgive my hasty speech. You must take 
a little nourishment every quarter of an hour till 
the symptoms pass. [She pats him gently on the 
cheek. 1 A great strain it was 1 

George, Strain ! If you knew the strain I've 
been bearing for months past! Haven't you no- 
ticed the dark rings under my eyes, the unnatural 
brightness of my orbs, the hectic flush on my 
cheeks, the bald spot on the back of my head? 
Strain ! . . . My dear sister, I have a secret 
and terrible woe — a woe which, with courage 



A QUESTION OF SEX 75 

worthy of an Englishman and a parent, I have 
shared with none. May, I am undone ! 

May [with accents of despairing sorrowful sym- 
pathy^. Who has undone you? 

George, My beloved wife, three hours since, as 
I slept. I feared it. I have feared it for many 
weeks. Listen. Five or six months ago. Uncle 
Francis said that if it was a son, he would settle 
ten thousand pounds upon it. 

May, And if a daughter? 

George. He coldly declined to consider the pos- 
sibility of such a thing. You know the special 
brand of ass he is sometimes. I said nothing to 
anybody, not even to my wife, for I felt that it 
would worry her. Imagine my condition of mind, 
my agonising suspense. Do 30U wonder that I 
have been wakeful night after night.? Do you 
wonder that, from pure weariness and fatigue, I 
should fall asleep on this very afternoon of my 
undoing? Oh, May! To be a father is not so 
simple and pleasing as the superficial observer 
might fancy. 

May [sympatheticallyl. It certainly isn't, es- 
pecially if you happen to be occupied with being 
nephew to Uncle Francis at the same time. 

George, Uncle Francis 1 Uncle donkey ! 
Uncle nincompoop ! Uncle booby ! Uncle b 1 

May, George ! 

George, Bachelor ! — Pompous old bachelor. 



76 A QUESTION OF SEX 

Upon my soul, to see the way bachelors behave 
themselves in these days makes me sick. 

May, Don't forget you were a bachelor your- 
self less than a year ago. 

George. Only in practice ; not in theory, not in 
theory. I maintain that all bachelors are idiots. 
Look at Uncle Francis ! There's a nice sample ! 
I beheve the beggar knew it would be a 
girl all the time. But in any case, why couldn't 
he keep his precious plan of benevolence to himself 
till I was actually a father. Then, unless the sex 
of my child happened to please his fastidious taste, 
he need have said nothing; I should have been 
spared all this anxiety, and I should have been 
no worse off. 

May. Well, George, it's a great pity, of course. 
I suppose he won't withdraw the condition .? 

George [sn'iffingl . Not he 1 

May [trying to he brave']. After all, you are 
no worse off! Uncle hasn't robbed you of any- 
thing. 

George. Oh, hasn't he? I like that! You 
aren't a father, May, and you can't enter into a 
father's feelings. Now what I feel is that he has 
robbed me. He's robbed me of precisely ten thou- 
sand pounds. Here am I, engaged in the arduous 
and expensive task of founding a family. I see 
ten thousand pounds within my grasp. The in- 
human monster positively dangles it before me, and 



A QUESTION OF SEX 77 

then, through no fault of mine — I repeat, through 
no fault of mine — it is snatched awa}^ 

May [caressing him']. Never mind, George. 
You're doing splendidly in your profession, you 
know you are, and you'll soon have got a large 
practice together, and made ten thousand pounds 
all of your own. Never mind. 

George. But I do mind. I will mind. I won't 
be robbed. I absolutely decline to be jockeyed 
out of a large sum of money on a mere — a mere 
— a mere quibble of physiology. The idea is re- 
volting to my legal intellect. Something must be 
done, and done quickly. 

May. I'm afraid it's a little late, George. 

George. Rot ! We must think of some- 
thing — instantly. Uncle Francis is certain to 
call to-tiight. I wish he lived in the next hemi- 
sphere instead of in the next street ; that would give 
us a chance. May, you must help me; I rely on 
you. 

May. But really, George, I don't see 

George. I shall be sure to think of some scheme 
in a minute or two. [Re-enter Helen.] Hush! I 
shan't say anything to her. . . . Well, sweet 
sister-in-law. 

Helen [delightedly to May], That darling is 
perfectly marvellous. Nurse brought her up to 
the light just now, and she blinked her eyes like 
anything. 



78 A QUESTION OF SEX 

May [with equal delight and astonishment^. 
No ! Just fancy, George ! 

George. Yes. Imagine the intelligence in- 
volved in that apparently simple act. That's what 
you call " taking notice," I suppose? 

Helen, The little pet blinked her ridiculous lit- 
tle eyes several times. 

George. About how many times? 

Helen [after looking at hiin\. I daresay you 
think you're very funny, George. . . . 

May [instinctively coming to the rescue of the 
sex^. George, don't be silly. You've no notion 
of good taste. 

George. Well, she called my daughter's eyes 
ridiculous. I don't think that was quite in the best 
taste, especially after an acquaintance of only 
three hours. 

Helen [to Georgel. Dear Ada is awake now, 
and she did say she would like to see you for a 
minute, but I doubt whether in your present mood 
— [George is at the door in a second.^ George ! 
[Stopping him peremptorily.l 

George. Well? 

Helen [going up to him, and putting a hand on 
his arm entreatingly^. Be good to her, George. 
And mind, you must only stay a minute or two. 
My dear [to May'], you had better go with him. 
We cannot be too careful. And I will just scrib- 
ble a line to Ernest. [Sits down to write at table. 1 



A QUESTION OF SEX 79 

May [to George^. Now, papa. \^Exit George 
and Ma2/.'\ 

Helen [reading what she writes']. "My love. 
Just a word to let you know that all is well, and 
Ada has a little daughter, rather weak and puny, 
I fear, but we cannot expect all children to be as 
strong as ours. Ada was very brave, but it is for- 
tunate I came, as no one seemed to have any idea 
of how to manage. May Foster is very kind- 
hearted, but so girlish. Shall return Thursday, if 
I can be spared. Love to the chicks. Don't for- 
get what I told you about going to bed early. 
With fondest love from your little Nell. P.S. 
No time for more." [Folding up letter. Enter 
Francis Gower, with hat and stick.'] 

Francis. Good evening — er 

Helen. Ah! Good evening. [Getting up.] 
I must introduce myself. I am Mrs. Ernest Stan- 
ton, George Gower's sister-in-law. You, I feel 
sure, are Mr. Francis Gower, George's uncle. 

Francis [shaking hands with assiduity]. De- 
lighted to make 3 our acquaintance, Mrs. Stanton. 
You knew me for a Gower at once, then .'' 

Helen. Yes, you have the unmistakable Gower 
eyes — wicked ej^es — only more so. [They sit 
down.] 

Francis. You flatter me. 

Helen. Flatter you, Mr. Gower.? How so? 
When I see eyes like yours I always say to myself 



80 A QUESTION OF SEX 

that their owner has ensured the happiness of some 
innocent and trusting woman 

Francis. I beg pardon — I am not, er 

Helen. By not marrying her. 

Francis. In that sense I may certainly claim 
to be the benefactor of your sex. When I review 
in my mind the vast phalanx of charming women 
whom I have not married, I 

Helen [interrupting him drily']. Of course you 
want to know about Ada? 

Francis. Yes, I thought I would come round 
and inquire before sitting down to dinner. I was 
given to understand that there was an expectation, 
a surmise, a suspicion that — er 

Helen. Well, Mr. Gower, I have good news for 
you. Ada has a daughter. 

Francis. A daughter! How delightful 1 
[Smiles to himself with secret joy.] You said a 
daughter.? 

Helen. Yes. Just after three this afternoon. 
Rather an unusual hour. 

Francis, Indeed! Er Indeed! I fear 

I am quite at sea in the minute details of these mat- 
ters. Are — are mother and child both doing 
well.? 

Helen. Splendidly, splendidly. My sister has 
behaved admirably. [During the foregoing con- 
versation Helen has just put her letter in an en- 
velope, and addressed it. She now goes to the 
mantelpiece and rings hell.] 



A QUESTION OF SEX 81 

Francis. And the child — how did it behave ? 

Helen \_smirmg cautiously^. Oh, well, Mr. 
Gower, as you say, you are rather at sea in these 
matters. 

Francis. It is so difficult to mould one's inquir- 
ies in quite the right form. Now, at funerals, I 
assure j^ou, I am unimpeachable. I have often 
been told so. Question of practice, I suppose. It 
is a most singular thing to me, having regard to 
the alarming increase in our population, how many 
funerals there seem to be, and how few births. 
Perhaps that has not occurred to you, Mrs. Stan- 
ton? 

Helen [after ringing bell again]. Indeed not. 
Quite the opposite, in fact. Did you hear that 
bell ring? 

Francis. Distinctly. 

Helen. That is the fifth time I have rung it, at 
least. These events upset a household from attic 
to basement. 

Francis [mildly surprised]. So far? Can I 
be of any assistance to you? 

Helen. Oh, no, thanks. I only want to get 
this letter posted. If you will excuse me one sec- 
ond. [He rises and opens door for her.] 

Francis. Of course George is in high spirits? 

Helen [going out]. Oh, yes. But he conceals 
his feelings. I\Ien do, 3^ou know. They think it's 
manly. [Exit.] 

Francis. Just so. Well, Mother Nature, you 



82 A QUESTION OF SEX 

with the inscrutable ways — [^sits down~\ you've 
saved me ten thousand pounds by this day's work. 
I reverence you. . . . You're a bit of the 
right sort. [^Smiling mith silent sat'isf action. ~\ 
I've got through safe this time, as it happens. But 
I must really cure myself of these fits of impulsive 
generosity. Now if it had been a boy, I suppose 
George would actually have expected me to fork 
out that ten thousand, and I suppose like a good- 
natured ass I should have done so. \The door 
hursts open, and George a7id May enter quickly, '\ 

May [to George, as they enter^. Isn't she a 
pretty little thing.? [The two perceive Uncle 
Francis and stop short.~\ 

George, Yes, he is. [With a tremendous por- 
tentous look at May, pulling himself together.'^ 
Hullo, Uncle Francis ! 

May [with a look at George appealing for in- 
structions']. Good evening, Uncle. Rather warm 
isn't it, for the time of year.^^ 

Francis, You look rather warm, my dear May. 
[Shalces hands,'] 

George, Well, what's the news. Uncle.'' 
[Shakes hands,] Been to the City.'' 

Francis, No. This is the first time I've been 
out to-day. I thought I'd just walk round before 
dinner to inquire. 

George, To inquire? About what.? Oh! 
Ah! Yes, of course! You mean about Ada. 



A QUESTION OF SEX 83 

Well, Uncle, I'm glad to say it's all right, isn't it, 
May? 

May. Yes, it's absolutely all right. 

George, Ada is doing well, and I am the father 
of a fine boy. 

Francis [imperturhahle~\. A boy ! 

George, Yes. Now, come, Uncle, bear up. I 
know it must be a blow to you. But, heavens ! 
what's ten thousand pounds to a man of your for- 
tune.? WTiy, it's less than a fiver to me, isn't it. 
May? 

May. Yes, George, it is. I think it was 
noble of you, Uncle, to offer that ten thousand 
pounds, though the actual parting with it, to a 
person of your economic mind, cannot fail to be 
agonising. 

George, Yes, indeed. When I first heard that 
my child was a boy, I said : " I wish for uncle's 
sake it had been a girl." Didn't I, May.? 

May. You did, George. You were sitting in 
that chair, and I stood here, and you said : " I 
wish for uncle's sake it had been a girl." Those 
were the very words you used. 

George [to Francis']. My sympathies went out 
instantly to you, Uncle. You who will have to 
write me a cheque for ten thousand pounds this 
very night. Personally, I should prefer to con- 
sider your offer cancelled. But I feel convinced 
that you would never consent to such a course. 



84f A QUESTION OF SEX 

You are a man of jour word. You said you would 
settle ten thousand pounds upon my child if it was 
a boy. It is a boy, and you will. 

Francis. You're sure it's a boy.? 

George \_aside to May~\. Now what the deuce 

[to Francis']. "Sure it's a boy!" Well, 

what do you take me for.? 

Francis. I take you for a father, suffering 
from some nervous disorder. 

George. You mean I'm a little excited. Well, 
isn't that natural.? You wait till you're a father. 
Uncle — I bet you it'll make you sit up. But 
fancy you asking me if I'm sure my own child is 
a boy I 

May. Yes, fancy ! Uncle, you should be more 
careful. To a man in George's delicate condition, 
so recently a father, anything in the nature of a 
shock might easily bring about the most serious 
results. 

Uncle. You are right, my dear little girl. Par- 
don a rough old bachelor not accustomed to the 
etiquette of paternity. I suppose you haven't yet 
decided on a name, or names, for this marvellous 
infant ? 

George [looMng at May helplessly]. Well, 
er 

May. Dear Ada was saying only just now that 
at any rate he must be named Francis. Probably 
his name will be George Francis, but he will always 
be called Frankie, after you. 



A QUESTION OF SEX 85 

Francis, My dear, I am deeply touched by this 
little mark of consideration. 

George. Yes, Uncle. Of course we aren't the 
sort of individuals that proclaim their private feel- 
ings from the house-tops [Francis walks about 
and twists his moustache~\, but we think a great 
deal of you — a great deal. We look up to you. 
We admire your notion of the duties and responsi- 
bilities of a great-uncle. We, er And per- 
haps 3"ou'd like to give me the cheque now. Uncle, 
and then you won't forget it. [Francis takes no 
heed. Aside to Mat/.'\ If we can once get the 
cheque, he'll never stop it, you know, and we can 
undeceive him aftei-wards, and tell him it was a 
joke and all that 'sort of thing. 

May. Er — [goes up to Francis and puts her 
hands on his shoulders^. You are a dear old 
thing ! [She is just about to kiss him when door 
opens and Helen enters.'] 

George [suddenly frantic]. Helen, you'd bet- 
ter go upstairs ; they've been knocking on the ceil- 
ing like anything for the last five minutes. I be- 
lieve they want something. 

Helen [quietly]. George, you've had too much 
whisky. I've just come from dear Ada. [May 
has dropped her hands from Francises shoulders 
and looks stonily at Helen.] 

George [calmly desperate]. Helen, this is 
Uncle Francis. You haven't met before, I think. 

Helen. Oh, yes. We met a minute or two ago, 



86 A QUESTION OF SEX 

and I was telling Mr. Gower what a fine little girl 
Ada has. [With a stifled shriek May sinks into a 
chair. George also sits down, lamentably sighing. 
Pause, in which only Helen is mystified.'] 

Francis. Mrs. Stanton, as the head of the 
Gower family, I feel it my duty to apologise be- 
forehand. You are about to witness what is 
known as a " scene " — that is, unless you would 
prefer to retire. 

Helen. Not in the least, I assure you. 

Francis. Not merely a " scene," but a " family 
scene " ; which, I believe, is the most highly devel- 
oped form of " scene " known to science. 

Helen. Pray, don't mention it. I am quite ac- 
customed . That is, short of bloodshed, I 

can stand anything. But I do think blood is hor- 
rid. [Sits down with pleasurable anticipation.'] 

Francis [nodding suavely in acquiescence]. 
The preliminaries being settled, we may proceed. 
George, why have you been lying to me.'' 

George. Lying to you. Uncle.? 

May. Lying, Uncle? [Suddenly crosses over 
to Helen and they embrace, Helen sympathetically 
rising to the height of May's emotion. May then 
sits down again.] 

Francis. I used the word. 

George [forcing a laugh]. Oh, yes. I see 
what you mean. I see what you mean now. I 
see 

Francis. What eyesight! 



A QUESTION OF SEX 87 

George. Well, I was just carried away by one 
of those sudden impulses that one has, you know. 
That was it, w^asn't it. May? 

May. Yes, George, that must have been it. 
I'he sort of thing that comes over you. Uncle, be- 
fore you know where you are. 

Francis. Comes over me? 

George. No, Uncle, not you. You won't un- 
derstand it, I'm afraid. You're too old. You've 
got past the age for impulse. It's a disease that 
comes somewhere between measles and gout. It 
only affects the younger generation. 

Francis [sJiowing perhaps the slightest passing 
trace of heat~\. I'm too old, am I? I belong to 
the older generation, I suppose [with terrible cold 
sarcasm'\. Toothless gums, palsied limbs, dod- 
dering idiot, and so on. [Smiling calmly again^ 
hut distinctly very angry beneath the Arctic smile'\. 
If you look as well as me at forty-two, sir, you'll 
be lucky — damned lucky. 

Helen [half to herself ^ enjoying it^. As Ernest 
often says, the band is beginning to play. I seem 
to hear the strains in the distance. 

George [getting upl. Forty-two! . 
Uncle! 

May [with shocked surprise'\ . Forty -two ! 

Francis. Sit down, sir. 

George [sitting dozmi'\. Well — you called me 
a liar, but it occurs to me I'm not the only 

Francis. Yes, I do call you a liar — a liar from 



88 A QUESTION OF SEX 

the basest, the most mercenary motives. You told 
me your cliild was a boy. 

George. Tut, tut. A slip of the tongue. You 
exaggerate trifles. Besides, for anything I knew, 
my child was a boy. I admit I had been told it 
was a girl ; but you know what women are. Uncle, 
especially at these times — absolutely unreliable. 
I was merely, as it were, hoping for the best. 

Francis, Have you not just returned from 
viewing the body.^* 

May [musingly']. Now we're at an inquest. 

George. I saw a kind of vermilion blob, sur- 
rounded by woollen fabrics, and I was given to 
understand that what I beheld was a human nose. 
But before I could satisfy myself even on that 
minor point I was told to go, as Ada mustn't be 
excited. 

Helen. I hope you'll all acquit me of any de- 
sire to take part in this scene; but do I gather, 
Mr. Gower, that George has attempted to deceive 
you as to the — er — sex of his — er — offspring? 

Francis. You do gather, Mrs. Stanton; you 
emphatically do gather. 

Helen. George, I'm surprised at you; I really 
am. To think that j^our poor dear wife should 
have gone through what she has gone through this 
day — and you not satisfied ! George, I blush for 
you . . . Then you w^ere ashamed of your 
daughter. You wanted a son: a son that you 
could train up in your own sinful habits of bias- 



A QUESTION OF SEX 89 

phemy, self-indulgence, and deceit! All I can say 
is, I'm glady profoundly glad, that it is a girl. 

Francis. Mrs. Stanton, so am I. You have a 
truly noble mind. 

Helen [continuing to George^, What could 
be the object of such a childish deception.? Even 
you must have foreseen that it couldn't last; that 
there must come a time when the dreadful secret 
would reach your good, kind uncle's ears. 

Francis. I will tell you his object, Mrs. Stan- 
ton. As you may possibly have heard, I am an 
industrious and painstaking person. I work hard 
and live plainly, and by the exercise of those gifts 
which heaven has been pleased to grant to me, I 
have accumulated a fortune — some would call it 
a large fortune; I merely call it a fortune. I 
daresay I am worth a hundred thousand pounds. 
Now you might imagine that, possessing this and 
a clear conscience, I am happy. But there is 
another and a darker side to the picture which I 
am endeavouring to paint, Mrs. Stanton. I am 
cursed, continually cursed, in spite of what George 
is pleased to consider my advanced age, with an 
impulse — the impulse of unrestrained generosity. 
[George and May exchange a look heavy with 
meaning.'] Acting under this impulse, about six 
months ago, when George imparted to me the in- 
formation that — er — he, that Ada — when, I 
say, George, imparted to me the information, I 
said: " George, if your child is a boy, I will set- 



90 A QUESTION OF SEX 

tie ten thousand on him." You see boys are so 
helpless. A boy can't marry a rich husband ; can't 
make his own clothes ; can't, if the worst comes to 
the worst, go out as mother's help — that is why 
I said, " if it is a boy I will settle ten thousand 
pounds on your child." I was under no obligation 
to make the offer. I acted merely from impulse, 
the impulse of absurd generosity. And how does 
George repay me? By lying to me, and, what is 
worse, getting his sister to lie to me. In order to 
obtain a paltry ten thousand pounds he is willing 
to stain his honour with a lie. Bah! You, Mrs. 
Stanton, with characteristic insight and common- 
sense, have at once put your finger on the most 
despicable aspect of this painful affair. The lie 
was useless, futile, silly, [^A slight pause ensues 
after this damning indictment.^ 

Helen. George, did your wife know of your 
uncle's offer.'' 

George. No, I kept it from her. I thought it 
would worry her. 

Mai/. That's perfectly true, Helen. He said 
so to me himself. 

Helen. I do not approve of secrets between 
husband and wife. It would have been better if 
you had told dear Ada. 

George. But what difference could it have 
made ? Uncle only made the offer 

Helen. One never knows . . . Ah! George! 



A QUESTION OF SEX 91 

Francis [suddenly to Mayl^. As for you, May, 
you have pained me beyond expression. 

Helen [interrupting with womanly tactlj^. Now 
as I have been dragged into this little — shall I 
say " difficulty " ? — let me end it for you. I al- 
ways think it is such a pity to allow a quarrel to 
grow ; one should stamp it out in the bud. George 
— and you, May — you must beg your uncle's 
pardon. I am sure he will grant it. 

Francis [with Christian resignation^. Will- 
ingly. 

George, Oh, very well then, if there is to be 
such a fuss about a mere nothing, a momentary 
forgetfulness, excusable I should have thought in 
a man suffering the first pangs of fatherhood, I 
beg pardon. I apologise. I grovel. 

May. If uncle can take any pleasure in the 
self-abasement of a fellow-creature, and that fel- 
low-creature a woman, I also grovel. 

Helen [brightly]. There, there. That's all 
right. Shake hands. [They shake hands with 
mutual forgiveness.'] 

Helen, There! It's all done with and forgot- 
ten. A little tact, I have invariably found, is all 
that is necessary in these affairs, and I'm sure I'm 
very glad to have been of assistance. And now, 
Uncle Francis — I may call you uncle? — you will 
write out the cheque. 

Francis. The cheque.? 



92 A QUESTION OF SEX 

Helen [coZmZz/]. The cheque for ten thousand 
pounds. 

Francis \_almost staggeredy yet still imperturba- 
foZ^]. The cheque for ten thou 1 [Stops.'] 

Helen. You surely are not going to withhold 
it — especially after George and May have apolo- 
gised so prettily. You surely aren't going to cast 
a slur, as it were, upon my niece, and my poor dear 
sister who has behaved so splendidly to-day ! 

George [^suddenly tumbling to the game~\. You 
surely aren't going to 

May, My dear uncle, you surely aren't going 
to 

Francis [after a pausel, George, is your child 
a boy or is it not? 

George, I'm informed that he isn't — that she 
isn't. 

Francis, Well, then, upon what possible 
ground can you claim my ten thousand pounds? 
Allow me to remark that I have not the slightest 
intention of parting with it. 

Helen, Mr. Gower, I am deeply disappointed 
in you. Common humanity alone [Breaks 

May, Uncle, you have pained me beyond ex- 
pression. [Both the women begin to cry softly, '\ 

George [looking to heaven]. My poor wife and 
innocent babe ! 

Helen, Great wealth may be to its owner a 
blessing or a curse. Alas ! I fear it is too often the 



A QUESTION OF SEX 93 

latter. It hardens the heart, blunts the finer sus- 
ceptibilities, and transforms into a fiend what un- 
der more favourable circumstances might have been 
a human being. I have noticed the same phe- 
nomena given in my own children when Ernest 
gives them sixpence. 

Francis l_striving after dignity without self-con- 
sciousness'\. By Jove! It's eight o'clock. I 
shall be late for dinner. 

Helen, Yes, that's it. Go — go — and con- 
sume dainties out of season, and drink expensive 
wines, while your own flesh-and-blood eat the bread 
of sorrow. Centre all your thoughts on yourself. 
Shut your eyes to the grief and suffering which 
surround you. Think only of the carnal appetite. 
There is the rich man all over ! 

Ma7/. Trample on us. Drag the Juggernaut 
of your gold across our defenceless bodies. What 
is the shriek of pain, the moan of anguish to you, 
so long as your millions increase and multiply. 

George. Now, Helen, 3'ou see my uncle, my so- 
called uncle, in his true colours ! \_Francis gazes 
with longing at the door.l 

Helen. I do, George. I do, and I cannot bear 
the sight. I will go to my poor sister who is to 
be robbed of ten thousand pounds for a mere — a 
mere indiscretion. I must try to comfort her as 
best I can. It will be a fearful shock to the poor 
thing. It might kill her, but of course she must 
be told. 



94 A QUESTION OF SEX 

George, True, the news may kill her, but, as 
you say, she must be told. 

Helen, I will do my best to comfort her — I 
cannot say more. We must hope for the best. 

George, Ah ! Her you may comfort, but who 
shall pour balm into the wound of my defenceless 
child, whose career is blasted, so to speak, before 
it has cut its first tooth? 

Helen, You may well ask, George. But you 
ask in vain. Wealth has no ear for the wail of an 
infant. Wealth is preoccupied with its dinner. 

May [appealinglyl. Uncle, are you quite, quite 
determined.? 

Francis l^coughingl. Yes, May, I fear I am. 
And I insist on being allowed to depart. 

All Three, Oh, go, go. Do not let us keep you 
from your repast. 

Francis ^moving to door"]. Possibly — I say 
possibly — I may repeat my offer, if at some fu- 
ture time you, George — that is, Ada, should have 
a boy. I have noticed that some parents have 
large families — families in which both sexes are 
represented. If so 

Helen. Alas ! a frail hope, a hope probably 
delusive! Our dear curate at Ealing has nine 
daughters . . . 

George [^with cold politeness']* I thank you, 
Uncle Francis, but I have no expectation of being 
able to avail myself of your offer. Helen, we must 
resign ourselves. 



A QUESTION OF SEX 95 

Helen, We must. 

May, Yes, yes. 

Helen. But do not let us bear spite; Mr. 
Gower, we freely forgive you. Personally I shall 
pray for you. 

May, Yes, Uncle, we feel it our duty to forgive 
you, and dear Helen will pray for you. 

Helen [showing her forgiveness^ and with a new 
idea in her head]. Before leaving, Mr. Gower, 
you must really come upstairs and see the baby. 
She's a charming little creature. [Aside to George 
while Francis is collecting his hat and stick, "] If 
we could get him upstairs [George compre- 
hends that in the presence of maternity a/nd inr- 
fancy, his uncle may he less obdurate,'] 

Francis [edging towards the door], I do not 
doubt it, but I would really prefer to be excused. 

Helen, But Ada said to me specially that you 
were to go up. She wants you dreadfully to see 
her baby, her first-bom. You must feel how heavy 
the little dear is. 

Francis, I shall be charmed to — when it is a 
little bigger. 

May, Surely you will not disappoint dear Ada ! 
Surely j^ou don't bear malice ! 

Francis, I would rather . . . 

George [taking him by the arm]. Come along, 
Uncle, we'll all go. 

Helen, Yes, we'll accompany you. You 
needn't be afraid. 



96 A QUESTION OF SEX 

Francis [for the first time showing signs of los- 
ing his equanimity; faintly J^. Not to-night. Some 
other time. 

George. Oh, come on ! 

Francis [^holding back with all his strength^. 
George, I will not. The two great rules of my life 
are never to enter a sick-room, and never to handle 
babies. And you ask me to break them both at 
once. 

Helen, Oh, stuff! 

May, The man's sh}^, actually. Make him 
come, George. 

Francis \_appealingly'\. No, no, George, I en- 
treat. I once handled a baby. 

All Three, Well.? 

Francis, I dropped it! [Consternation.'] 

May, Did it die? 

Francis, No, I have sometimes wished it had. 

George, Who was it.? 

Francis, It was you, George, and your mother 
fainted. 

George, Oh! You dropped me, did you.? 
Was I injured for life, maimed, crippled.? 

Francis. Happily not. 

George. A jolly good thing for you. I'll 
teach you to drop me and make my mother faint. 
Come on now ! 

Francis. Excuse me, I pray you to excuse me. 
[To himself,'] I'd give a good deal to be out of 
this. 



A QUESTION OF SEX 97 

Helen [solemnly~\. How much would you give? 

May, Would you give a lot? 

George. Would you give ten thousand pounds? 
[Almost sJiaking him. Dramatic pausc.'\ 

Francis [faintly, hut quite self-possessed 
againl. I feel it coming, 

Helen. What? 

Francis. It. My impulse of extravagant gen- 
erosity, my terrible charitableness. [He makes an 
inarticulate noise.'] There ! There ! 

May. Perhaps pen and ink would assuage the 
agony. 

Francis, Perhaps. [They lead him to the ta- 
ble. He sits down and pulls cheque hook out of 
his pocket. May hands him the pen. He hegins 
to write.'] 

Heleri [reading over his shoulder]. "Pay 
George Gower ten thousand pounds." 
Now the signature. 

Francis [pausing on the verge of the signature] . 
Understand ! I don't have to see that baby till it's 
six months old, and I don't have to handle it till it's 
a year — no, two years old. [George nods, all 
smiles. Francis signs with a flourish. Tears 
cheque out of hook, and hands it to May. May 
hands it to George, who receives it in ecstatic 
silence. Francis heaves a profound sigh.] 



[Curtain.] 

[1899] 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: May 2009 

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